


Confessions

by hockeylass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gangs, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Murder, Mystery, Rehabilitation, Rescue, Theft, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeylass/pseuds/hockeylass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are reunited for a baffling murder which takes them on the road.<br/>And the road turns out to be a whole lot longer than either of them ever imagined...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forgive me

It was a balmy evening in London, hordes of people enjoying the July heatwave, supping ice cold cider and Pimm's in bars city-wide. There wasn't a seat to be had in the beer gardens, even though it was nearly closing time. Typical British summer; people milking the life out of the fact they didn't have to wear a coat at night.

Among the crowds a woman walked briskly, a professional woman in her mid-30s. She never diverted her gaze to the bars and clubs to her sides, her eyes fixed forward.

Eventually she reached her destination, walking through the doors and pulling side the curtain.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

"Yes my child," said the gentle voice at the other side of the screen. "Continue and repent."

She looked up, rosary beads in hand, and inhaled sharply, as a figure loomed over her.

...............

  
"Sherlock..." whispered a voice. "Sherlock wake up..."

The voice was irritating. He'd not long fallen asleep and was deep in it. It was black, and calm. Boring if he was honest, but not so boring that he wanted to leave. He'd finished a big case involving a triple murder at a circus and was, frankly, exhausted. He opened his eyes and looked about in the dark. Eventually they adjusted and he was greeted by Mrs Hudson.

"You ok?" Sherlock said, sitting up as she turned on his bedside lamp.

"Well I just heard a huge bump in the back yard, and now crashing in 221c, and you know it's empty" she said. "I had the pest control in not two weeks ago..."

Sherlock put on his robe and with a reassuring rub to his housekeeper's arm, grabbed the kendo stick he kept in the corner and crept downstairs, and downstairs again to the basement flat. He heard soft banging and crashing, and deduced that, whoever it was, didn't have a light. Fumbling in the dark, clearly.

With the stick raised he opened the door and burst in. He was surprised by what he saw.

"John?"

The doctor waved a drunken finger in Sherlock's face. "S'not wha you think Sherl," John wavered across to him, clearly hammered.

"Where's Mary?"

"Dunno...she left me. Messed it up didn't I? Didn't even have your help this time....Jeeeesus,." he slurred, rubbing his eyes against the now harsh light that beat down on him from the single bulb in the ceiling.

By this time Mrs Hudson had joined the party, hovering behind the detective's gown.

"Better get the kettle on Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "He's got work in the morning."

It turned out John, in his drunken state, had enjoyed what was known as the "magic pint" which tipped him from being a jolly drunk to a downright annoying one. Mary, fed up with his antics and reluctance to call it a night, had got a cab home, taking with her John's keys and phone. It was 4.30am by the time John had stumbled his way to the only place he knew completely off by heart. Rather than knocking like any other sensible person, or even sobering up a little with a coffee beforehand, he decided to break in.

"After what happened to Sherlock, and then you John..." Mrs Hudson scalded, "A break in? I tell you, you're an idiot sometimes."

Sherlock was still haunted by images of the broken mirror, and the space left behind — it had been replaced but didn't quite cover the original area, leaving a permanent reminder of The Intruder. John had seemed, on the face of it, to cope well with what had happened to him following the break-in. Clearly all wasn't as well as he painted — he was saying yes to everything in a kind of "no regrets, life's too short" approach, but Mary didn't want to play ball. She wanted, rightly and fairly, to concentrate on raising their daughter. Sherlock had noted it all, and was concerned.

"John, I think it's time we had a chat," Sherlock said, crouching down to meet John. "I made a promise to you and Mary, which you know I will always keep."

"You don't need to tell me Sherlock," John mumbled in a hungover haze. "I don't know what I'm doing, I'm going to lose them, I can't lose them."

"And you won't, if you nip this in the bud right now. I'll talk with Mary. But you've got to take responsibility. I know what happened to you. I'm still sorry for that. But you've been given another chance at life eh? Take it properly."

"Go back to bed Sherlock, you look like shit," John clearly didn't want to deeper than that and Sherlock knew it. "Try looking in a mirror before you hand out critiques on appearances," he responded with a smile.

Sherlock text Sarah to say John would be off sick and sent his friend back to the bed that would always be available for him, in what would always be John's room, and Sherlock returned to the land of slumber and silent dreams.

................

Mary initially did not return Sherlock's calls, let alone John's, but she eventually came to 221b to talk and, hopefully, collect her husband.

Sherlock made the tea, and mediated once again, just as he had done after Mary shot him. There were many tears, for both John and Mary. Sherlock struggled with the sheer weight of emotions in the room. Last time they were that strong, he was concentrating on staying alive and had filtered them out for the sake of self-preservation. This time, he had his opinions, strong ones, about John's behaviour, but buttoned his lip as much as possible. But when Mary said the magic words, Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"You need to get back onto cases with Sherlock."

John's head jerked up from out of the prison he'd made with his hands to bury his face, and his eyes suddenly gleamed. It had been eight months since he and Sherlock had almost died, and Mary had told him in no uncertain terms, once Sherlock was home, that he wasn't doing it any more. He wasn't going to be the Consulting Detective's sidekick. He was going to be Dr John Watson; doting husband, family man.

At the time, John did not protest. But the reality of not running the streets of London fighting crime with the great Sherlock Holmes - regardless of what they had both been through - was killing him by the time a month had passed. It had been the same for Sherlock. He had taken time to get back to things because of his poor health. But as soon as he was able he began on cases ranking one and two, entertained himself briefly with grades three and four and within six weeks had boosted himself back up to seven-plus mysteries. But doing it on his own was not half the fun, and twice as tiring. He slept a lot. And was grumpy. Poor Molly, who had helped him through the worst of it, sometimes bore the brunt but he knew the error of his ways now. They'd even been out for dinner together, much to Molly's - and surprisingly, Sherlock's - delight.

A long silence followed, as both men realised the implications of Mary's words.

"You serious?" John said, nervously. "You don't mind?"

"As long as you stop this bloody mid-life crisis you seem to be going through. You need the thrill of the chase John." Mary said the last sentence, resigned.

Sherlock's eyes darted between the pair of them, as if watching some kind of tennis match. He continued to say nothing, frantically drying the tea cup he'd washed four times already.

"Course. Course I will stop, I would have stopped anyway bu—

"No you wouldn't John. You've been looking for something to fill the void of working with him," she said, gesturing to Sherlock for the first time during the conversation. "I can't give you it. You're not whole without him."

Sherlock looked to John, blank faced. "She's right, obviously."

"Oh get over yourself Sherlock," he replied, dryly. After a brief lull, he broke out into a smile, washing the tension away. Sherlock laughed back, Mary smiled in acknowlegement. "There's three of us in this marriage," she admitted. "I'm bloody wed to the both of you."

"Well, I don't know about that Mary," Sherlock replied. "I always thought I was your 'real' first child."

Within minutes of Mary giving the green-light for normal life to start again, normal life was resumed, when DI Greg Lestrade came bounding up the 17 stairs of Baker Street.


	2. Pawn in the game

Sacred Heart was old, very old, and part of the fabric of London life and community. It was the last place you would expect to see a crime. Not even the low-lifes from nearby estates touched it. Father O'Donnell and his congregation had done so much good work over the years, helping those in need, that only praise and awards came their way.

Not now.

When Sherlock and John arrived with Lestrade, he was stood, looking at his place of work, a cup of coffee shaking in his hands.

"He's not said much since it happened, except Hail Mary. He thinks he sinned because he could not save her," Lestrade said, quietly. "Go gently on him Sherlock, he's in real shock."

"We don't need to speak to him. Shall we go inside?"

Lestrade led Sherlock and John through the big double doors into the church. It was a grand setting for a crime, and John had expected to see some kind of crucifix murder, some kind of religious symbolism, or ritual.

As they walked towards the altar, Lestrade explained. "Honestly Sherlock this one is going to have you baffled, what you're about to see makes absolutely no sense.  
"Father O'Donnell was taking confession from the victim, who we have identified as Melissa Carter, last night when it happened -"

"Wait, so they were both in the confession box when she died, surely it's him then?" John said, matter-of-factly.

"No John, that's the thing, the screen separated them. He asked her to tell him her sins, heard her whimpers, assumed she was crying, and then silence. When a few minutes had passed, and he hadn't heard anything he got out, opened the other door and found her lying there, strangled. He never heard what her sins were."

"So whoever killed her didn't want her telling anyone anything then," Sherlock said. "Clearly she had a secret that she now takes to the grave with her."

When Sherlock, John and Lestrade reached the confession box, Anderson and his team were just about to move the body, having gathered all the information they had needed.

"Oh, God, you're here." Anderson said, exasperated.

"Well I'm glad you hold me in such high regard," Sherlock said. "Go away."

Anderson huffed and scuttled off, summoning his team to do the same. He knew his place, there was no point hiding it, or fighting against it.

Sherlock looked at the box. It was simple, wooden, with a curtain to give privacy. A screen of carved wood with small fleur-de-lys shaped holes carved into it separated the priest and the sinner. The woman was casually dressed, but sharply so. She had money, Sherlock noted. The coat was expensive, the jeans were well made, the shoes bearing the red sole of Christian Louboutin. She was slumped against the corner, bruises around her neck consistent with strangling. Rosary beads were in her still clenched hands and he noted faint traces of blood on her earlobes.

"Where's her handbag?" John said.

"Good question," Sherlock answered. "Where is it Graham?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, are you doing that on purpose now?," Lestrade asked. "We think the attacker took it."

"So there's clearly something in there worth killing for," Sherlock said. "What would a woman, who dresses like this, be doing visiting a confessional so late at night?"

"Perhaps she thought she'd be safe here?" John said. "Churches are, or at least were, somewhere you could shelter?"

"Indeed, John. I doubt she's even a Catholic. Look at the beads. There's no sign of wear on them, so she's either been a saint all her life or she just bought them. She wasn't looking for shelter though, she was either burdened by a secret she could no longer carry alone, or she had done something bad herself."

Sherlock clambered into the tiny space, looming over the woman's body. With one hand on the back of the box, in order not to fall, he used the other hand to root around in the pockets of her coat, and found nothing. He unbuttoned it fully, revealing the woman's smart shirt. It had a breast pocket, but that was empty. He focussed in on the jeans, rolling the body to check the back pockets; empty. The front pockets, also empty.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Four, at the moment." He was lying, this one had him baffled, but he wasn't about to show it. As a last resort he took off the woman's shoes.

Bingo.

Stuck to one of her feet, was a small piece of paper. It had caused a blister on the woman's sole as she had walked. He peeled it off and unfolded it. It was a pawnbroker's receipt.  
Sherlock rose to his feet, triumphant. "Come on John, we've got some shopping to do." He strode off, John following quickly behind.

"What? Sherlock, you're supposed to be helping!" Lestrade called after them.

"I am," came the cocky response.

.........................

The cab ride to T. S. Carrington & Sons pawnbrokers was a lengthy one, it was practically the other side of the city, but it gave Sherlock some time to ponder what he had seen at the church.

"What are we looking for?" John asked, under hushed tones, following Sherlock to the jewellry section.  
Sherlock ignored him. "Excuse me, could I possibly look at this tray of rings?"

The obese man behind the counter, presumably the son of Mr Carrington or he would not have been employed given his scruffy attire, waddled over, clearly put out that he had been required to move. "Which one?" He huffed.

"That one there," Sherlock pointed through the glass.

"Who's the lucky lady?"

Sherlock's face shot up. "Oh, erm, it's for my mother, she likes emeralds and I've been sent by my father to pick something for their anniversary."

"Ah I see," the man said, looking at Sherlock, then at John and, like most other people, coming to the wrong conclusion. "Well I'm sure you have better taste than your father."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The man flapped. "Oh, er, nothing, sorry"

"Do you want my money or not?"

"Course, of course," he said, producing the tray of rings. 

Sherlock picked up each ring - there were nine in total - and inspected them closely. The fourth, he discovered, had not been as thoroughly cleaned. "That one came in yesterday by a young lady. Think she ended her engagement."

"I'll take it."

"Is this one not better?" the man said, gesturing to a ring with more elaborate gems than the one Sherlock had picked.

"No, I want this one, it's more my mother's style."

"Ok then, that will be £395."

Sherlock pulled out a credit card and quickly paid, walking out the door instantly.

"And what was all that about? Because I am confused," John said.

"The note was a receipt, for an emerald and diamond ring. That's all I had to go on but looking at the other rings he had, this one stood out. It's not been cleaned professionally yet, so it's just been handed in. The rest were polished up. This one," he showed John the space beneath the gem setting. "has all kinds of things caked in it still. It's been buffed on the top to make it shine like the rest, but it's not been properly done yet because the underneath is still dirty."

"But why would she pawn this before she died?"

"Why indeed, John. I need to go to St Barts."

......................

John never knew what to do with himself when Sherlock was investigating in the lab. He always stuck his eyes down the lenses of a microscope and stopped talking to anyone, save for rude demands. So while Sherlock did what he always did, he went and had a coffee with Mike Stamford instead.

"How's it been then mate, feel like I've not seen you in months," Mike said, gnawing at a bacon roll. "Well, you know, after what happened anyway."

"Well the wife banned me from going off out with His Highness in there, didn't she? Can't say I blame her, and initially I was quite glad of it," John said, quietly. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he continued. "But then the boredom started to set in and I went off the rails a bit."

"Didn't you go and see that therapist you used to visit, Ella wasn't it?"

"Honestly? I didn't think I had a problem. Took Sherlock to find me in the basement flat at Baker Street still hammered from the night before, to make me see there was something up. And Mary to let me off the leash again, too."

The pair laughed.

"Sherlock's missed you," Mike said, getting serious again. "He's been, different. Can't put my finger on it. Though Molly has reaped the benefits. He's not half as mean to her as he used to be. He bought her a coffee the other day."

"Really?" John said, eyebrows raised. "Well after what happened I think there's a new-found respect on Sherlock's part. I'm glad for her, it's always been such one-way traffic between them to. Right, suppose I had better go see if he's made some miraculous breakthrough."

John shook Mike's hand and returned to the lab, which was still silent as Sherlock investigated and Molly went about her daily business.

"Anything from the ring?"

"He's been writing stuff down furiously so I'd say there was something," Molly said, as she filled out some forms. "How are you John, feel like I've not seen you in ages."  
John laughed quietly after his breath. "Yeah I'm fine, back in action I guess you could say."

"Well its nice to have you back," Molly looked over at Sherlock, expecting him to say something, and got silence in return.

John went and sat in a corner, reading his phone, until Sherlock broke the silence. "Yes, yes, yes! I knew there had to be something!"

"What? What have you found?"

"Well there's all the usual things you would find under there - skin particles, soap, a dog hair, but there is also soil."

"Soil?"

"Yes, particles of soil. And this soil, if my hunch is correct, is going to take us on a little trip, John."

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock fell silent once again as he took the tiny sample of soil, combined it with various chemicals to break it down into its various compounds and then visit his mind palace.

And when he emerged out of it, he uttered three words. "The Lake District."

John rolled his eyes. "First case in eight months and we're going hiking?"

"Yes. We'll get a train so far and then hire a car to get into the centre of it, I'm not driving all the way. Come on, no time to waste!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the case and the pace of the tale, I'll be updating regularly!
> 
> The next chapter takes a dark turn.....


	3. Chasing cars

The pair went back to Baker Street only briefly to get things for an overnight stay. Sherlock also gave the ring to Mrs Hudson for safekeeping, taking a picture of it on his phone instead.

As they were leaving, Lestrade pulled up in a cop car.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Investigating a case, Lestrade, what does it look like?

"We followed you to the pawnbroker's shop Sherlock. And then to St Bart's. What are you up to?"

"Leave me to it Lestrade, I'll have this solved by the end of the day and then I'll tell you how I managed it," Sherlock was in a cocky mood today. Cockier than usual. "You're going to make us late for our train."

"Where are you going?"

"To find out more about jewellry, that ok?"

"Jewellry?"

"Yes, jewellry. I believe this has something to do with a theft of some kind. Did you not notice her ears? She'd had some earrings ripped out. So they were worth something. Her hair was exceptionally well kept and cared for, professional. Her hands were manicured to within an inch of her life. So, she was showing off her ears, and her hands were showing off a product. She worked at a jewellers - a saleswoman and a model."

"How did I not see that?"

"As ever, like all of you, you see but you do not observe," he said, as he got into a waiting cab, John following.

As they drove away, the exasperation of Lestrade left behind, John said: "Why didn't you tell him about the ring?"

"Because I don't have time for his confusion and all the paperwork that would follow. This is the first case we've done together in months and I want control over it."

"Fair enough," John surmised. "You'll get in trouble you know?"

"Don't I always?" Sherlock responded, with a smile. "Oh come on you wouldn't have it any other way!"

"So what theory do you have about this, so far?"

"Well, I am going to bet everything I own that a theft from a jewellry shop will be reported to Scotland Yard today. Of gold, or jewellry, or money, I'm not sure what. The ring holds the key. She got rid of it because it was weighing her down in some way. Perhaps she was involved in the theft, perhaps she was being blackmailed? I can't get to the finer details, I don't have all the facts, but that woman wanted out of whatever she was in, and whoever killed her didn't want her giving the game away."

Sherlock got his phone out and quickly typed a text to Lestrade, ordering him to Melissa Carter's address, and asking for any details they might find about family - names, addresses, jobs - as well as anything that related to Cumbria.

His reply came midway through the duo's train journey, as Sherlock suspected Melissa's parents lived in Windermere, so the Lake District connection was there. Lestrade also confirmed a jewellers on New Bond Street had been robbed, of 18 diamonds. Sherlock smirked, smugly, as he showed John the text.

"So what are we doing in the Lake District?"

"Clues John, just gathering clues. And I will bet everything points towards that ring. We will have to start tomorrow, first thing," he said. "We wont reach Windermere until at least midnight."

Sherlock's phone started to buzz. It was Lestrade.

"What happened at the pawnbrokers Sherlock!" Lestrade was shouting, and John could hear him from other side of the little table between the two. "Nothing, I bought something and left."

"What did you buy?"

"A ring."

"A ring? What is going on? I've just been to the pawnbrokers Sherlock, about an hour after you left, it was completely trashed by a gang. They beat up the worker there, he's a babbling mess. All he can remember is the stench of cigarettes and vodka."

"Well clearly they want what I have," Sherlock's face lit up. "They were after the woman. Who are these Russians Gavin, do we have an ID?"

"Russians? How do you...oh, vodka. Naturally. We are looking at CCTV now, when I get anything I will let you know. And when you get back, you're going to give me what you have for safe keeping. They could be after you now."

John could still hear Lestrade and he straightened up when he heard that. Sherlock hung up.

"Is this a Vatican Cameos moment Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I doubt it, if they were following us they'd be on this carriage. And we are the only two on here. If you want, we can walk up and down the rest. But if they are on this train, they'd have done something by now."

Arriving at their destination, they got off the train and picked up the Land Rover Sherlock had hired outside. As they set off West, towards the National Park that was shrouded in darkness, they did not notice the beaten up Subaru Impreza pull away behind them.

...............

"The lights aren't very good on this thing Sherlock," John said. "You can barely see and that's even with full beam on. We should complain to the hire company when we get there, maybe they can send a replacement."

"Oh it's ok John don't fuss, I can see enough."

John rolled his eyes. "Another string to your bow Sherlock? Night vision as well as your massive intellect."

Sherlock shot John a dismissive look. "I am not even going to honour that with an answer."

"How far away are we? I've not seen any signs for a while."

"Probably about an hour, give or...." Sherlock looked in his rear view mirror. "That's odd."

"What?"

"That car has been behind us the whole way."

"Yeah, and..."

"It's just flashed at me and it's coming right up our...."

_Bang._

The car's headlights glowed into the cabin of the Land Rover and then rammed into it. It pulled to the right, bashing the right hand corner of the rear bumper.

"JESUS!" John screamed. "It's trying to run us off the road!"

Sherlock said nothing, trying to keep control of the jeep, all the while looking in his mirrors to try to get a view of their new enemies. The glare of the headlights made them into grainy silhouettes.

"Why are they following us?" John shouted.

"I don't know!" Sherlock was clearly panicked, he saw the car drop back, and then speed up again, ramming the back once more and then trying to hit the left hand side of the bumper. They were determined to push Sherlock and John into danger.

Momentarily, the bumping stopped and the car backed off, giving Sherlock and John a split second of respite, before shots rang out. Bullets whacked into the back of the Land Rover, shattered Sherlock's wing mirror, while another shattered the rear window and whizzed past John's ducked head.

Suddenly, Sherlock slammed his foot on the accelerator and them off the road, knowing the jeep's four-wheel drive had a distinct advantage from the hatchback which chased them. John, panting with stress in the passengers' seat, gripped the dashboard with white knuckles.

"What the hell are you doing?" he screamed over the thuds, bumps and roars of the engine. "I'm getting us away from them!" Sherlock shouted back.

John could only gulp as the adrenalin pumped through his system, his lips tightly shut as he squinted to see ahead of him. The jeep's lights were dim in the pitch black and

Sherlock's reflexes were being tested to the limit as he dodged trees and other hazards. On the other hand, the Russians seemed to be professionals at car chases. Despite not having the benefit of a 4x4, they were hell bent on catching up and were almost on their tail. 

"We've got to lose them!" John screamed. "How are we going to lose them?"

Sherlock looked to John with the kind of look the doctor knew only as danger. "Brace!" Sherlock screamed as he slammed his foot on the brakes. Their brake lights, broken already by their attackers' guns, were out. And it meant the Russians had no idea the vehicle in front would come to an abrupt halt. In a split second, they careered right into the back of Sherlock and John. The force of the impact launched Sherlock and John forward violently in their seats, Sherlock's head slamming into the steering wheel and whipping back. 

What they hadn't anticipated was the fact they'd stopped right at the edge of a ravine. And the impact sent them over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I've given you a cliffhanger - literally!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, I don't know the geography of where they were driving so please employ some artistic licence if you do! 
> 
> Would love to hear your comments :)


	4. All is lost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, what you are about to read I need to give a little warning to beforehand.
> 
> I have no medical knowledge - this is inspired by an episode of a TV show I used to watch back in the 90s which I recently re-watched, and wondered how Sherlock and John would have dealt with the situation. If I've got anything wrong, I'm really sorry - I did as much online research as I could and where I couldn't find facts and/or real-life experiences I tried to think what the possibilities would be. This is the case for this chapter and almost all of the rest of the story. 
> 
> In any case there's bucket loads of angst, dependence, vulnerability... and John being a bloody hero, so if you're into that sort of thing, read on :) ......

John prised his eyes open, groggily, the nausea rising in his stomach as he realised he was the wrong way round. Blood had rushed to his head, and he was dizzy and disorientated. He ached all over but mainly near his old shoulder wound, which had clearly been aggravated, and his ribs screamed at him; bruised at best, maybe even broken. He noticed it was light, but dewy, the sun low in the sky as far as he could tell, so it was not long dawn. With a wince, he turned his head to the right, to see Sherlock, but he wasn't there.

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, John, there you are," a soft voice came from just outside the driver's window. "Are you ok?"

"Yes, I think so, under the circumstances."

"Good.... Good..."

John could tell his friend was not OK. With trepidation, he unclipped his seat belt and unceremonially thumped down onto the jeep's ceiling, banging his already painful ribs. After taking a moment to gather himself and try to sense any other pains he hadn't already accounted for, he crawled gingerly out of Sherlock's shattered window, to find the detective leaned up against the side, and looking like death. His hair and the side of his face were thick with blood, dried and fresh.

"Shit Sherlock are you ok?"

"Well I'm concussed and have a heavy dose of whiplash, I think. I'm cold..."

"How long have you been here?," John said, taking a closer look at Sherlock's head wound. 

"As soon as I came to I got out, I panicked, I'm sorry I didn't get you out John."

Sherlock sounded odd. Small, even.

"That's OK I'm here now. Have you been sick at all?"

"Once but I just feel nauseous. You?"

"Not yet but I probably will. It's just shock no doubt." John clambered back in the jeep to find his phone. When he did, it was dead. "Shit. Got your phone Sherlock?"

"It'll be in the jeep if it's anywhere, where's yours?"

"Battery is dead. I can't find yours," John said from the wreckage. "We'd better start walking then, the nearest road is God knows how far away."

"You go on John, leave me here."

"Well I'm not going to go do that, am I?"

"You'll have to."

"Eh? Now I know you are concussed, come on," John said, grabbing Sherlock under his armpit. But he didn't budge.

"I can't feel my legs John."

................

John stood in utter silence for a moment, the colour draining from his already pale face. 

"Have you got any pain in your back Sherlock?"

"No, just my neck muscles from the whiplash. I must be pinching a nerve or something, I don't know. I got out of the car, walked about for a while to try to work out where we were and make sure the Russians were no longer a threat. But then I felt wobbly on my legs and a bit dizzy, so I sat here and fell asleep. When I woke up, I couldn't get back up."

Silence.

"I'm scared John."

John crouched beside his friend, whose lips were tinged blue against his alabaster skin. "We'll get you to safety, ok?"

He unbuttoned Sherlock's suit jacket, leaned him forward gently and put his hand around to Sherlock's spine, starting at the collar and working down. "You tell me if this hurts, ok?"

"Ok."

Sherlock winced slightly as he pressed down on patches around his neck and shoulders, but he could tell it was muscular. Other than that, the detective was silent. He felt nothing abnormal, no bulging bones or dips where they shouldn't be. As he reached Sherlock's waistband, he pressed around. "Feel that?"

"No."

"Right." he moved his hand back up. "Here?"

"Yes."

"Does it hurt?

"No."

John huffed. Sherlock hadn't lied when he said no pain. He checked Sherlock's pulse, which was on the slightly weak side, and his temperature, which was a little lower than it should have been, and then got to action. He clambered back into the jeep, grabbed their bags and started sifting through to find anything that might be useful. He had brought his medical bag, which contained enough for minor injuries but not enough for Sherlock. He'd have to improvise. He yanked the parcel shelf from the back - that would make a decent stretcher he thought - and underneath found a sleeping bag. Brilliant.

"Ok Sherlock let's get you comfortable," he said, Sherlock sighing, weakly. John unzipped the sleeping bag and then, overriding his own pain, lifted Sherlock onto it, sliding his legs under the thick duvet material and zipping it up to his hips.

"It feels so weird, not feeling anything John, it's like floating," Sherlock muttered. "It will come back, won't it?"

"I bloody well hope so, who is going to chase London's finest criminals if not?" John smiled, trying to make the best of the situation. He put the parcel shelf parallel to Sherlock, upturned to make a sled. "Now, can you shuffle yourself on there for me?"

Sherlock hadn't ever had to shift his own body weight, which although light for a man of his height, was still substantial when not co-operating. With an effort and a grimace of pain from his neck and shoulder muscles, he slid himself over, then picked up the sleeping bag and dragged it on. It exhausted him and felt unnatural.

"Well Moriarty always joked I was your pet dog, and here we are!" John smiled again. He was going to keep cracking jokes to get a smile from Sherlock. He had to keep spirits up.

He unravelled a roll of bandage and gave Sherlock both ends. He looped himself into it and began walking, dragging the makeshift sled behind him. This was going to be a long walk.

.............

The bottom of the ravine the pair had crashed into was relatively flat, with long grass. Not ideal sledding territory but good enough. Sherlock, although still groggy, sat forward and held onto the bandage as tight as he could. John, though his ribs hurt like fury, pushed on regardless. "There has to be a sign of life somewhere along here Sherlock, it's not like we're in the Rockies or something."

"True. We're headed East by the positioning of the sun, and that's the direction we were driving in when I took us off the road...." Sherlock trailed off. "I'm sorry about that. I just thought we would lose them."

John stopped, turned and with sadness in his eyes, said: "Well we did, and if we don't get you help too, you'll be joining them. No time for discussions about what's already happened. We have to act in the here and now, OK? So if we were heading East before, do you remember where we were headed?"

"I can't, I'm sorry John," Sherlock admitted. "I remember looking at a map on my phone yesterday. There's a few villages around here, if I remember rightly, but I couldn't tell you names. It's all too foggy..."

"Names don't matter, we just have to find a village. Or a phone, or something."

John continued to pull Sherlock under the midday sun, sweat pouring off him. He looked over his shoulder often to check on Sherlock, who by 3pm had stopped sweating. Dehydration was setting in, another thing that could kill him if they didn't find help fast.

"John I'm thirsty," Sherlock uttered through dry lips. 

"I know, I am too. Not much further I'm sure."

While signs of life were not forthcoming, they were delighted soon after, to find a freshwater stream, from which the pair both enjoyed a good drink. A little colour returned to both their faces. "You should rest, John," Sherlock said with kind but tired eyes.

"No time for that, I can rest when this is all over," he paused, and looked down at the sleeping bag, unmoving. "Still nothing?"

"Nope. Not a thing. What am I going to do? I won't be able to live at Baker Street....I won't be able to work! Jesus, my life is going to be ruined!" The frustration began to set in. He punched at his lifeless limbs, trying to prompt a response.

"Don't think like that Sherlock. Chances are you've got a bit of swelling that's pressing on your spinal cord, or a herniated disc, although you'd be in pain with that. We'll get you to a hospital and they can assess you. Until then, don't cross bridges that haven't been built yet, ok?"

Sherlock sighed, a single tear sliding down his bloodied cheek. 

"Right, come on you, time to get going," John said, getting up and rubbing Sherlock's shoulder. "It's going to get dark in a few hours and I'd rather we were in safety by then."

As the sun began to set, however, they were not safe. In fact, the wheels were falling off their escape plan. The bandage snapped, the sled hit a hidden boulder, ripping a hole through it and tipping Sherlock out, and the flat valley ended to meet a steep wooded hill. Sherlock, propped up against a tree, looked at the mountain they had to climb if they were to have any hope of surviving. Both their stomachs growled with hunger, but swilled with nausea as well. 

"I'll just have to carry you on my back Sherlock. I'll carry everything to the top in runs, and then come back for you?

"Well why don't I try to make a start while you do that?" Sherlock said, determination in his eyes. He unzipped the sleeping bag and lifted his bum out of it, and then pulled his legs out. He rolled the bag up and threw it at John, who by this point gave him one of those 'you aren't being serious?' looks. "Go on, no time to waste!"

"I think I preferred you when you were half out of it," John said, grabbing their bag of supplies and the broken parcel shelf. He thought perhaps he could fix it later.

Meanwhile, Sherlock began to shuffle himself along with his hands, reaching the bottom of the hill and inching his way up. May as well start adapting now, he thought to himself. He'd have a head start in rehab.

By the time John had reached the top, dumped the stuff and come back down, he found Sherlock sweating with effort, around 15 metres up the hill, his trousers filthy and one shoe gone where it had caught on something. "Come here you great berk," John said. With the incline of the hill, Sherlock put his arms round John's shoulders and John grabbed a leg in each hand and lifted him into a piggyback. "Hold on tight with your arms Sherlock. Jesus, you're heavy!"

"Well I'd feel lighter if the bottom half of me knew what it was doing," Sherlock quipped. 

Together they huffed and puffed up the hill, slipping occasionally and having to start again, but around an hour later and the dark properly setting in, they made it. 

"We won't go any further tonight, we may as well sleep here," Sherlock admitted. "You take the sleeping bag, you're in need of a good rest."

"But Sherlock half of you can't feel the cold, you need better regulation," John protested. 

"I'll be fine John, I have my coat, and I'll sit on the parcel shelf so my legs stay dry and a bit warmer, OK?"

Sherlock lifted himself onto the parcel shelf and with filthy hands, dragged himself to the base of a thick tree so he could lean against it, and used his coat as a blanket, nodding off to sleep quickly, or at least it appeared that way to John. When he didn't get a response ten minutes later, John walked over to his friend, sat closely next to him, unzipped the sleeping bag fully and draped it over the pair of them.


	5. The way home

Mary hadn't heard from John since the afternoon before, when he had called her from Baker Street, irritated at being dragged away by Sherlock to investigate the case. But she could tell that, underneath that irritation, was a contentment with being back in the thick of it. He secretly loved it. He had promised to text her when they had arrived, but when she woke in the morning, there was nothing waiting for her on her phone.

Instinct told her something was wrong, but her logical mind just figured that either his phone battery had died, he had no signal or had simply forgotten. He'd call later, she thought.

By 5pm she had still heard nothing and was starting to worry. She called Mrs Hudson and Molly, neither of whom had heard anything either, so she called Lestrade.

"Have you heard anything from Sherlock, Greg?"

"No, nor John for that matter, not since they were on the train last night. They're probably up to their neck in deductions or something, or even on their way back?"

"It's not like him Greg, John should have called by now. I'm worried."

"There's not a lot we can do to be honest Mary, they've not been gone 24 hours yet so we can't start a missing persons' search. I'll put a call up to the Cumbrian police, see if they've had any contact."

The night passed slowly for Mary. The hours were long and she could not sleep for worry. Her phone remained silent, until at 2am, it buzzed.

"There's no easy way for me to say this," Lestrade said. Mary began to shake. "Please tell me they're not dead, please I'm begging you."

"We don't know Mary, there's been and accident, deep in a forest. There's a smashed up hatchback with the remains of four men scattered around it - none of them were wearing seatbelts - and a Land Rover, at the bottom of a ravine. Sherlock and John had hired it. But it's empty. We don't know where they are. They're going to start searching at first light, which isn't far away."

"Why aren't they searching now?!" Mary exclaimed. 

"I guess it's too dark, or the forest areas too dense to use thermal imaging, I don't know."

She put the phone down and stared vacantly into nothing, tears streaming down her face. She waited.  
..................

The next morning, nothing had changed. They were still tired, still hungry, still lost and Sherlock still couldn't move. He didn't look well at all.

John was awake first and he sat quietly, watching the gentle rhythm of Sherlock's breathing until the sun rose fully. He looked up to see the light peek through the leaves and felt grateful it wasn't winter, and it was at least dry. If it had been raining, they'd be in far more trouble. 

After finding a bush to go to the toilet, John realised Sherlock hadn't been. Or maybe he had, and didn't realise it? He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, and thought best not to mention it to save Sherlock's mood. When he returned, Sherlock was awake.

"How are you feeling?" John said, concerned.

"How do you bloody think?! Like a paraplegic," came the curt response.

"Come on Sherlock, no need to be like that. You're going to be OK."

Sherlock looked down at his legs, looked back up, and sighed. "I really hope so John. Because if this is how it's going to be I don't want to carry on."

"You'll be FINE!" John snapped. He wasn't going down this road, not now. Not ever. Not on his watch. "Sorry. I don't mean to snap. But you are going to be fine, I know it. I'm the doctor, just trust me."

Sherlock managed a weak smile. "No, I'm sorry. My mood certainly isn't helping us now, is it?"

"Not really. I'm gonna get us out of this. I'm a doctor, I'm an ex-soldier. I trained for situations like this."

Sherlock sighed again and rested his head on the bark of the tree while he watched John gather their things. "So how do we move from here? We can't take all this with us can we?"

John looked his friend, helpless on the floor, and the other equipment. How was he going to move everything? He began by emptying out his backpack and putting back in only pain relief, his gun and the sleeping bag.

"Sherlock if you put this on, I can lift you and we can move that way. We'll have to leave the parcel shelf."

"Ok, if that's what you think is best," Sherlock responded quietly. "I'm thirsty again John".

Shit, John thought. He's dehydrated again, knew that wouldn't take long.

"Ok well the sooner we get going the sooner well get you that drink?" John said, helping Sherlock shift forward to put the backpack on him. "Right, let's go then" John said.  
Sherlock with a huge sigh used the trouser fabric to manoeuvre his legs apart so John could crouch between them, then wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. John grabbed underneath Sherlock's knees and heaved forward, but instead of getting up with ease, he fell abruptly onto his knees and then faceplanted into the soil, crying out at Sherlock's weight on top of his bruised torso.

"Shit John I'm sorry!" Sherlock exclaimed as he slid himself off John's back into a heap next to him.

"People will talk if they find us like this," John winced, forcing a smile as he pushed himself over onto his back, sat up and untangled Sherlock's legs from his. "Let's try that again eh?"

After a second failure the duo were third time lucky and once upright managed to get a head of steam, covering plenty of woodland which seemed to get more and more sparse before they came across a bridleway.

"This is good John, this is good," Sherlock mumbled into John's coat collar. He'd been sliding for about an hour, John sensing his dehydration was getting to near critical levels. He said nothing, desperately trying to work out what more he could do to help his stricken friend, and prayed silently for something good to come round the corner.

Another hour later and with no sign of anyone, John was also flagging. He knew he had to keep going but he was struggling to put one foot in front one another, and falling would do both of them damage. "Sherlock I need to sit for a while, ok?"

"Hmmmph"

"This'll probably be uncomfortable, sorry" John said. He had to release one of Sherlock's legs to steady himself and lower the pair down, but they still hit the ground with a thud.

"J'n, y'okay?"

"Yeah Sherlock. I'm just a bit tired." In truth John was exhausted, in pain, hungry, thirsty and losing hope. He patted Sherlock on the stomach, and the detective responded by grabbing at John's hand, patting it back. "S'okay....s'okay..."

Had John not been so dehydrated himself, he'd have sobbed like a baby.

.........

"Sir? sir? can you hear me?"

A muffled voice of a woman came into John's psyche, and he wondered if he was dreaming it. With a struggle he opened his eyes to see a young woman, wearing a riding helmet and a bright pink polo shirt, over him.

"It's my friend, he's in trouble," he slurred.

"You don't sound so good yourself," said the girl. "What happened?"

"Car crash. Miles back. We've been trying to find help. He's hurt bad. He needs hospital."

Panic set into John's voice and he tried to sit up.

"Stay there sir, maybe it's best you don't move."

"It's ok I just need a drink."

The girl leapt up and ran off, coming back seconds later with a camelbak pack. "Drink from this, it's squash."

John took a few sips. "He needs it more, he's going to die if he doesn't get anything soon."

The girl turned her attention to Sherlock, who was lying awkwardly, the backpack still on, arching his back, and his legs all over the place.

"Has he broken anything?" The girl asked. "Sir?"

"My name's John," he responded, "I don't think so but he's not been able to feel his legs since a few hours after the accident. Said he walked around, fell asleep outside the wreckage and woke up paralysed."

"Oh my God."

"I'm a doctor and I think there's pressure or swelling on the spinal cord from the impact, but obviously I can't be sure."

The girl pulled out a mobile phone. "It's impossible to get an ambulance here but I can get him to a place an ambulance can reach. Can you walk alongside?"

"Oh yes, I can do that. Thank you. Thank you so much."

John tapped Sherlock on the cheek and got a grunt in response. "Come on Sherlock, we have a princess and her trusty steed to come save us."

"Oh th's nice J'hn. A horse?"

"Yeah a horse..." He looked over at the girl and her horse. Which was huge. A good 18 hands high, and she almost couldn't reach the stirrup with her foot.  
John sat Sherlock up. "Right, how are we going to do this? What's your name?"

"Amelia. Nice to meet you. Not like this though, obviously. Erm, I think maybe the best thing is to get him on first, Tornado is pretty good and he's worked with disabled riders before...."

John baulked at the word, Sherlock was the most able person he knew, but it was good news really. The horse would be patient. He pulled the backpack off Sherlock and then, with a huge and painful effort, scooped him up in his arms, taking him to Amelia and the horse, called Tornado, who had been tethered to a post.

"Sherlock I need you to grab at the saddle and pull yourself up, me and Amelia will give you a shove ok?"

It was completely clumsy and undignified as Sherlock hauled himself onto the back of the horse with the little energy he had left, laying stomach first over the saddle.  
Amelia took his right leg and moved it over to the other side of the horse's body, twisting Sherlock round and slumped so far forward with tiredness his head rested on Tornado's neck. "Sherlock try to sit up, use the saddle front," John said, "you need to give Amelia room.".

John shoved the small of Sherlock's back as far forward as he could to push his hips to the front of the saddle, and held it there as Amelia mounted, sitting behind him.

"Sherlock you're going to have to stay awake for me, tell me if anything is coming that might spook Tornado, can you do that?"

"Ok" was all Sherlock could mumble. He was exhausted.

John could only watch as they slowly walked on, Amelia dialling 999 and giving the ambulance crew a location two miles away at the entrance of the forest. Two miles away. That's all they were away from it and John hadn't got them there. Wiping a salty tear from his eye, he slowly followed. "Wait for me," he said, jogging sluggishly to catch up.

"We are best walking slowly, trotting will jiggle him about and he would probably fall off," said Amelia.

"Yeah you're right, don't want to do any more damage," John said, his voice trailing off.

"He'll be ok won't he?" She asked,

"I think he will, I bloody hope he will," John said, rubbing his face.

"I can hear you," Sherlock mumbled. "Might look like'm sleepin' but m'not. Scared J'hn"

"I know."

Amelia looked at John's sad eyes and gave a small kind smile of acknowledgement back. She barely knew either of them and yet she'd already worked out they were intrinsically linked somehow. And good. Good people.

"So you're a doctor John?" She said, nudging Tornado onwards once again. "Yeah, ex-army. He's my partner - not like that!" John corrected. "We work together, he's a consulting detective."

"What's that then?"

"You've not heard of Sherlock Holmes? Ah well he's unique, aren't you?" John gave Sherlock a nudge, to make sure he was still coherent. A grunt in his direction was enough. "He works with the police to solve difficult crimes. He's a genius. But he does lack a little common sense. That's how we got into this mess."

"Sounds like someone a bit special then?" Amelia said. "Oh, sirens!"

The noise gave Sherlock the impetus to straighten up a little and grip harder onto the front of the saddle.

Tornado trotted on, John ran behind as fast as he could but his chest stung with the effort and he had to go back to walking. But he could see, in the distance, blue lights and angels in green uniforms running towards them. Help. Safety. Home.


	6. New transport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, hope you're enjoying the story. Just adding this little note to reiterate the points I made earlier about Sherlock's situation. Following on from the inspiration I had from the TV show from which this is based (it was Due South, by the way!) I did as much as I could to research the possibilities of the injury and the therapy, treatment Sherlock would have received. I have absolutely no idea if it is correct, so please take it with a pinch of salt if you don't think it's quite believable. Then again, we are in the realms of AO3 fanfic, anything can happen I guess!!

Sherlock was gently lowered off the horse by the team of waiting paramedics, and onto a spinal board, with an IV of vital fluids quickly administered. Sherlock, upon arriving at his destination, had shut down and was unconscious throughout the whole trip to hospital, and the scans to assess his condition.

John was also admitted; bruised ribs, pulled shoulder tendons and ligaments, and dehydration on his list of ailments. Thankfully he was ok, and quickly phoned Mary to let her know where he was.

"I'm so sorry you must have been worried sick."

"I let you go back on cases for the first time in eight months and look what happens," Mary said, anger tinged in her tear-filled voice. "They found a car full of dead guys and your Land Rover 30m down a ravine. I knew you'd made it out of the crash but after that...."

"Both our phones were dead Mary, otherwise we wouldn't have gone through what we just have.

"How's Sherlock?"

"I don't know, he's still having tests. But it's scary, I really don't know what they're going to say. I just hope my initial hunch is right."

John was discharged a few hours later and he went straight to the ICU to find Sherlock, who was back from his scans, and strapped down on the bed, looking tired and strained, but awake. He seemed to have lost weight quickly, and the dark rings under his eyes told of fear and pain.

"How are you Sherlock? Have they said anything yet?

"No. Not yet. I'm just waiting now but I'm not allowed to move until they know what's happened," Sherlock said, biting his bottom lip. "Listen, if this is permanent -" John nodded furiously. "No, John, if this is permanent, will you be able to help me? I don't think I can do this alone."

"It'll be ok Sherlock. And however long it takes, of course I'll help you.". John took Sherlock's hand. "It's what friends do."

A doctor with a stern face came in, holding a folder containing the news.

"Well, Mr Holmes, there's good news." The stern face became softer, with a smile. "You will walk again, although I estimate it may take a little while.

"Doctor Watson was correct in his deductions. There's swelling in the lumbar spine that's causing your paralysis, caused by the trauma of the crash. But there's no actual damage to the spinal cord as far as we can see, save for a minor bruise if that. We think there's also some of what we call spinal shock. There's nothing we can do about that, it can last hours or days, or it can last weeks, and I'm inclined to think it will be the latter given the time between your injury and getting to hospital, there's a chance it could have been aggravated further by your moving from the crash site.

"However we are going to inject some anti-inflammatory steroids into the swelling to bring that down. You will need physical and occupational therapy Mr Holmes. Your recovery, and your independence while you wait for the shock to end, will be compromised if you don't start as soon as possible."  
Sherlock's face didn't even flinch, almost scared, unbelieving.

"Mr Holmes?".

"Oh, he does this sometimes. He'll react shortly. I hope," said John. "Can he move now?"

"Let's get those injections in, and then we will get him moving."

Sherlock stayed deadly still, staring into the ceiling. John just put his hand on his friends, and gave it a little squeeze.

"It's going to be ok Sherlock, what did I say?"

After a long pause, Sherlock finally spoke. "I sorry I doubted you John. I should've known you were right, stupid sentiment and doubt getting in the way."

An hour later, the specialist and his team returned, rolling Sherlock onto his side and injecting a series of shots into his back at the point of the swelling. After a short period waiting for the drugs to settle and start doing their job, a physiotherapy team arrived to get him started.

They brought in a wheelchair, a proper everyday one, not one of those bulky ones that you can borrow in a supermarket. Even though Sherlock knew it wouldn't be permanent, the sight of it made his stomach drop.

Over the course of the next few days, he was quickly taught the basics; sitting up, transferring from his bed to the chair, from the chair to another seat, going to the bathroom - that part he really found humiliating - and general skills manoeuvring his new transport.

And when he wasn't doing that he was in occupational therapy, in the hydropool and physios working on his legs to try to maintain muscle tone.

John was surprised with Sherlock's attitude through it all. His reputation in hospitals was terrible but he had thrown himself into everything without a word, apart from refusing any visits from his family, or his friends. He also refused to talk about the case that had put him in hospital, and John was quite glad of it, if he was honest. On the fifth day, John was walking to the canteen with Sherlock wheeling determinedly beside him, and it was as if nothing was different..

"You're doing brilliantly Sherlock," John said. "You're gonna hate me saying this but I'm bloody proud of you. I really thought -"

Sherlock interrupted. "I know what you're going to say. You thought I'd be stubborn and miserable and petulant. I am all these things but my stubbornness is going to get me up on my feet, eventually, my misery I keep to myself and my petulance - I figured that was a wasted emotion in this instance."

Sherlock wheeled himself in front of John, blocking his path. "I hate this," looking down at his situation, his new silhouette. "But I know that soon I'll start being able to feel things and maybe a month or so down the line I'll be somewhere near normal and back at Baker Street. I want to be ready for the day I can feel something. I've never wanted to feel something more than I do now."

John crouched down to get to Sherlock's level and threw his arms round his friend. Sherlock tentatively hugged back.

"I'll be there every step of the way."

Over a cooked breakfast, which was more palatable than the slop presented to him in his room, Sherlock was almost back to his normal self. Including scowling when John's phone began to buzz, Mycroft calling.

"It's for you Sherlock, it's Mycroft."

"Oh you take it I don't want to speak with him today."

John huffed. "Hello Mycroft... Yes he's with me now...no he doesn't want to talk with you today. No no, he's ok....He's doing well actually....really? Oh, right, well..."

"What is it?" Sherlock whispered.

"Ok Mycroft see you later then. Bye"

John put the phone down. "We're going back to London."

"What? Seriously? But..."

"Mycroft has arranged for a private room and intensive therapy at St Barts. It'll be ready for you later today. He's already spoken with the team here and gained clearance."

"Oh, right. Ok then I guess we'd better get ready then..."

"You ok about this? I mean, from a selfish perspective I can't wait to see Mary and Natasha again, and frankly, get a change of clothes. They've been to the laundrette once since we've been here and I feel like a tramp."

"Is my suit clean?"

"Clean as it'll ever be. The trousers are still marked."

"Sod it, let's go." Sherlock wheeled away quickly, John following behind - nothing really had changed at all, he thought.

It took a while to get Sherlock through a bathroom routine and dressed ahead of travel but back in his suit he felt a little more like himself and couldn't wait to get out. He wheeled himself quickly out of the hospital, thanking the staff who had helped along the way, and as he got out of the doors he felt the sun on his face and the fresh, clean air in his lungs. It felt good.

John was impressed with the speed and ease with which he transferred himself into the passenger seat of the car Mycroft had hired for them, and John got them on their way back to the city. He figured it would take a few hours and put some music on, something classical that would ease the nerves he sensed in Sherlock.

"You sure you're ok Sherlock? You can tell me if you're not?" John said, breaking the silence about an hour into the journey.

"Tell you the truth John I don't want anyone seeing me like this," Sherlock said. "All, well, weak."

"Bloody hell you're the strongest man I know, don't you dare think that anyone views you that way! Listen, you and I both know this isn't going to last much longer, and I know it's not convenient but everyone - Mary, Natasha, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft - love you for who you are, not whether you're standing or not."

"Yeah. I know," Sherlock looked distant, deep in thought. "This trip is a day of therapy lost as well. That annoys me."

"Be ok, we'll get a session in tonight although this whole trip is probably going to be tiring enough."

And as John predicted, Sherlock gently fell asleep. He kept his eyes on the road and changed the radio staton to Radio 4 for a catch up on the news. Which didn't feature anything of note. It made John smile, at least they wouldn't have a backlog of cases to deal with when they got home.

"John when's the nearest service station?"

"Oh, you're awake, good nap?"

"John, I asked a question."

"Alright moody, er it's about 3 miles away."

"Good, we need to pull over."

"Ok...why?"

"I need the loo."

John's head shot across in his direction. "You what?" He said smiling.

A glint in Sherlock's eyes said all he needed to know. "I can feel it, I need the loo! But you have to put your foot down, I really need to go!"

The simple act of taking a piss had been completely taken for granted by both men but since the accident had become a grave reminder of what had happened. It required planning, scheduling and a tube. It was not dignifying and, in Sherlock's opinion, the worst thing about his condition. They never talked about the other thing.

John sped into the service station car park, broke with a screech and, leaving the engine running raced to the back and got Sherlock's chair out of the boot. Sherlock practically threw himself in and with all the speed of a paralympian raced through to the loo. "I may be some time!" He shouted as he disappeared through the automatic doors.

"Take all the time you need," John shouted back. "I'll be here."

45 minutes later he reappeared, looking decidedly disheveled and fed up.

"Ok?"

"Would rather not talk about it"

John didn't know what to say to that, quietly imagining a variety of difficult situations his friend may have gotten into.

"Still," Sherlock huffed as he got back in the car. "I felt something John. It's the beginning of the end, surely?"

"Seems that way. We're having a beer later to celebrate."

"Oh I'm not drinking too much John don't wanna go through that again in a hurry."

"Oh..."

The pair exchanged a glance, and it was Sherlock who broke the moment with a smile, allowing John to do the same for the first time since the accident. "Come on then," he said. "Let's get home."

 


	7. The waiting game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying the story so far. As with previous chapters I'll just say again, I've done as much research as I can, again please take medical stuff with a pinch of salt. I have tried my best lol!  
> Thanks for any kudos and comments, and as always thanks for reading :)

Only Mycroft was waiting for Sherlock and John when they arrived at St Barts. John wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, a welcoming party was the last thing Sherlock would have wanted but at the same time he needed to know they all still cared.

"Brother mine, how are you feeling".

Sherlock wasn't in the mood for platitudes. "Given the circumstances, ok, thank you. I regained some sensation on the way home so I'm keen to get straight back into rehabilitation."

"Good, I'll send the team up right away if you'd like?"

"Give me an hour to get settled please, little things take time now," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Of course. Whatever you need. John? Can I have a word?"

John followed Mycroft out of the room while Sherlock got himself onto the bed and slumped on the pillows, letting his arms relax after a strenuous day.

"Should he be having therapy today John? he looks tired."

"Well I personally think he could use some massage on his shoulders and gentle therapy, yes. We need to tell the team about his sensation, he was able to feel his bladder which is a big thing."

Mycroft shifted his weight, talking about such things clearly made him uncomfortable.

"Look, Mycroft, if you can't handle this then I suggest you keep a distance."

"I can handle it."

"I beg to differ."

"My brothers, erm, condition, is alien to me, it's difficult to see him dependent. It's not in his nature."

"Tell me about it," John rubbed his face. "But he's been so bloody brilliant through it all. You should give him more credit."

"Oh I do. I care deeply about him. It's not going to be an overnight thing, is it?"

"No, although he's very lucky. The doctors are usually cagey on time frames. They run on a wait-and-see basis and the longer he has no sensation, the bigger the chance it's permanent. However, in his case, they're confident he'll be walking again, perhaps in a week, maybe a month. But when his spine and the nerves begin to wake up again, it's going to hurt."

"Hurt?"

"Yes Mycroft, like hot pokers are being shot up his legs. I've not told him that part yet, but I plan to. And then of course he's got to build up the muscle he's already lost. It'll be a little while yet before he's running around chasing criminals again."

"And has he been driving the staff mad? He'll be moaning about his rotting brain, I assume?"

"Nope, he's been as good as gold. As I say, he's continued to surprise me. I think he's looking at his situation as his own case - he's pouring all his efforts into himself, and seeing that everyone who is helping him, is actually helping him. Don't get me wrong, he's had his moments - the poor orderly last night got a full deduction about his failed marriage and his fetish for high heeled shoes - but most of the time he's been well-behaved and focused."

Mycroft took a while to compute what John had just said. "Right then," he said, with a little cough. "Well I suppose I'd best leave you to it." Mycroft poked his head back through the door to find Sherlock trying to put a pair of pyjama bottoms on. "Need a hand, brother mine?"

"No," Sherlock huffed. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, seemed John was correct - stubborn yet compliant. "Ok, well, I'll be back tomorrow, have a good therapy session and sleep well."

Therapy continued at pace over the course of the next few days, Sherlock was getting better with everyday living and was less tired with each day as his upper body strength improved. Lestrade visited to take statements and Sherlock allowed him to fill him in on how the case had progressed since the crash - turned out the whole affair was linked to the Russian Mafia - while Molly popped in most days to see him. On a couple of occasions he went to see her to muck around with chemicals, and help her compile her reports. She welcomed the company and Sherlock relished the brain work.

"Sherlock, it's been a week since you got here, how are you coping?" Molly asked, her eyes fixed on a microscope, giving her the confidence to ask.

"Knowing I'll get the feeling back is what's keeping me going," he admitted. "I try not to think about this being a permanent thing, I have moments when I do and I get a bit panicked."

Molly took a moment to consider that - Sherlock, panicked? That was something she never thought he'd feel. "Well that's understandable," she said, quietly. "How's the therapy going?"

"It's long, and tiring and hard. I go to my mind palace while they do, whatever it is they do, to my legs. I don't like seeing it. It's like they don't belong to me."

Sherlock was opening up far more than Molly ever thought. "Would you like me to join you at therapy Sherlock, I can watch, even if you don't want to...I could learn some techniques and help?"

"Well it would give John a break. I don't want to be a burden."

"You'll never be that Sherlock. A pain in the arse, but never a burden." She looked up from her microscope and smiled at the smile looking back.

"Dinner?" he said. "Canteen food is lovely."

.........

Despite all his hard work, another two weeks passed with no change, and Sherlock's mood was dropping.

"Why am I still stuck in this thing!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hands on the wheels. "I should be feeling something by now!"

"Well the scans are clear and the swelling is gone. Now we wait, you know that."

"But John, the longer this goes on the bigger the chance this is permanent. That's what they said."

"Trust me, you're going to be ok. You've regained your bodily functions already, the rest will follow. Listen there is something you do need to know." Sherlock bristled in his chair, seemingly bracing himself for bad news. "You're really going to know about it, when it happens."

Sherlock crinkled his nose in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"When your spinal cord begins to wake up, it's going to hurt."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I didn't want to make you apprehensive about regaining the feeling." John shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in the face of Sherlock's angry stare.

"John I don't care what I feel, so long as I feel. And soon, preferably. This is driving me insane."

"I know Sherlock. Molly is doing therapy with you today isn't she?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yeah. She's very patient with me, and she does some of the techniques with me afterwards so I get extra. I don't know if it's helping."

"I am certain it is, just keep on going. You've been great so far, and it's going to pay off. I know it," John said, grabbing his coat. "I've got to pick Mary up from work, I'll see you later. ok?"

Sherlock watched John walk out the door and wondered when he'd have the same luxury. No time for moping, he thought. He wheeled himself out and towards the therapy centre, where Molly was waiting. Into battle again, he thought.


	8. Shocks and light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always! Again, as before, medical knowledge is zero, everything here is powered by Google searches (one particular account from Yahoo! Voices provided the bulk of the information) and a bit of poetic license!
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated :)

The smiling face in front of him took the edge of his anger, the light in her eyes making him feel guilty for having a strop. Her incessant optimism and cheery nature used to annoy him. Now, not so much.

"Morning Sherlock, all ready to go?" Molly said.

"As I'll ever be I suppose. Starting to get bored."

"I can imagine. You don't need me to tell you though that it's a necessary evil."

Sherlock gave a distainful look. "Come on then, best get on with it."

He was glad he did get on with it. Because it was during this session, with Molly beside him, that it happened. A shooting pain of complete fire shot down his left leg.

"Ha! Haaaaaarrrrrgggghhh!!" Sherlock cried out in a scream of pain and triumph.

"What is it Sherlock? Are you alright?" Molly said, panicked.

Sherlock was in too much pain to respond, his eyes clamped shut and his lips pressed tightly into white lines.

"This is good guys, really good, we have sensation!" said Anna, the kind therapist who was working on Sherlock's leg at the time. "Let's get you settled now, ok? We need to get the doctors to take a look and test for your feeling and reflexes."

Anna and Molly took Sherlock back to his room to await the doctors. They weren't far behind, performing all the necessary tests which he passed, but only on his left leg.

"The right leg shouldn't be far behind now, ok?" The doctor said smiling. "We'll get you some pain relief." Sherlock gave a tiny nod between grimaces, and Molly did the same - Sherlock was gripping her hand so tight his knuckles were white and her fingers were turning purple. 

His right leg joined the party about two hours later, and Sherlock made the whole hospital know, as pain coursed through his lower extremities, all the muscles and nerve endings coming back to life with cramps and tingles, which were like a million needles pushing through the skin and down to the bone. It was horrific. And at the same time, wonderful, Sherlock thought, through a morphine-induced haze. Molly stayed by his side throughout and John joined them as soon as he could.

The next morning, after a long and near sleepless night, Sherlock laid there wondering how much longer the pain would last. It was excruciating, tears welled in his eyes as he tried to breathe through it without waking Molly or John who were sleeping in their respective seats, either side of his bed. He looked across at the vacant wheelchair and wondered how long he'd need it for, but gave himself slight comfort that it wouldn't be for much longer.

Suddenly, a wave of pain coursed through and he couldn't not yelp, John jolting awake first and leaping to Sherlock's aid.

"Which leg?"

"Both" Sherlock hissed.

"Molly wake up I need your help, work on the right I'll work on the left". Molly was awake quickly and pulled back Sherlock's covers to expose his legs which were visibly shuddering. She and John tried to massage them and relax the detective and it seemed to work.

"If you can feel us, can you move?," Molly asked, tentatively.

"Too scared to try." He sounded like a petulant teenager.

"Just try wiggling your toes for me?" John said, quietly. "If you can't, don't worry, it'll come soon enough."

Sherlock scrunched his face up with concentration, all the time looking down at his toes which initially did nothing. His shoulders dropped and he sighed.

"Why don't you use your mind palace?" John said.

"Don't be absurd! Why would I have information about walking in my mind palace? It just happens - I don't need to store it," Sherlock snapped, teeth gritted.

"Go back far enough and you might," Molly said, immediately blushing at the the thought she may have said something wrong. "I mean, you had to learn it before, as a child....I don't know...."

Sherlock looked at Molly with tired eyes and tilted his head in acknowledgment. He put his hands in his traditional steepled pose, breathed deeply as if in meditation, and settled. John and Molly watched him, then his feet, then him again, for what seemed an eternity.

And then, a twitch, a tiny twitch on his big toe.

"Yes Sherlock! Yes!!" Molly exclaimed. "Try again"

This time, with a grimace. both big toes moved. Determined, he kept trying, again and again and each time more toes twitched until, exhausted, Sherlock managed to bend all ten. Sweat beaded on his forehead with the effort and pain but it was worth it.

"Come on, let's get you showered and then we can get you to therapy."

"Sod the shower I want to do this," Sherlock said. "Bring me my chair," he panted. "Jesus, this hurts."

Molly pulled it over and Sherlock heaved himself in. "Come on, no time to waste."

"But you've not been to the bathroom yet, cleaned your teeth, dressed? You've got strict routines that you still need to keep," John warned.

"Ah. Yes that." Sherlock was brought back down to earth. "Suppose I still need to take care of myself. Give me half an hour," he added as he shut the bathroom door behind him.  
Molly and John looked at one another and smiled. "Let's get a coffee. I think we are going to need it," John said. "Back in a mo Sherlock!" he called.

When they returned from the canteen to meet Sherlock they found the bed vacant, his clothes untouched and the bathroom door still shut.

"Sherlock?"

"In here," came the defeated response.

John put his coffee on the table and slid open the door to find Sherlock on the floor trying desperately to get back in his wheelchair. He looked tired and upset.

"Shit what happened?"

"I, was, well... well you can guess. I was getting back in my chair when I got this wave of pain and I passed out." He looked up at John and couldn't conceal the slight wobble in his bottom lip.

"Come on, have some of my coffee and we'll get you to Anna." John helped Sherlock into his chair, got him decent, and while he pushed him to the therapy centre, Sherlock sipped the coffee with shaking hands. Molly was close behind, silent. She didn't know what to do or say. Sherlock would have never wanted her to see him in that situation, and she knew it.

"Morning Sherlock", said Anna. "How are you feeling?"

"He's had a bad night with the pain and he's just had a fall in the bathroom because of it," John said before Sherlock could give her a rude response. Instead, Sherlock looked down in embarrassment.

"No need to worry, you were bound to have a slip-up at some point and if you're not feeling well then it's more likely to happen. Come on, let's get you started. It is going to hurt because of the sensation but you're not doing any damage, so if you can push through it as much as possible then we can make progress."

"I wiggled my toes this morning," he said, trying to regain some pride.

"Brilliant!! Why don't you show me that first and we can go from there."

"Want me to stay today?" John said, a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"If both of you would I'd be grateful, I'm going to need all the encouragement I can get."

Molly crouched in front of him, trying to hide the sadness in her face as she looked at Sherlock's depressed demeanour. "Wherever you want us, there we will be. You're almost there Sherlock. Almost there."


	9. Back to business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far, a little reminder that I have NO medical knowledge, this is all how I ASSUME it would be. So pinch of salt stuff!
> 
> Our boys are coming home...

It was hard work.

Another ten days of intensive therapy for Sherlock followed as he put every ounce of energy he had into getting back on his feet. Progress was, in his opinion, painfully slow, and painfully painful. It wasn't just the aching of weakened muscles, it was the continued agony of the nerve endings coming back to life. He refused morphine, claiming it slowed him down, but other pain relief really wasn't cutting it. He had dark rings under his eyes from the disrupted sleep, despite his exhaustion. In fact, it was so exhausting that after each day of exercises, massages, strengthening and testing, John had to push him back to his room and lift him into bed. He was too tired to feel vain about it and every day he was grateful for John's presence, always keeping him right. 

However, all the effort paid off when, on a muggy and cloudy Thursday morning, his lead therapist, Anna, gave him the green light to try to stand. Sherlock sat in his wheelchair at the end of a walkway with bars either side. "Here you go then, use the bars to pull yourself up," she said.

He was able to move his feet to the floor by himself, and, making sure they were firmly planted - almost scared of himself - he heaved up. His weakened muscles trembled with the effort, and his knees wobbled worryingly, but with his upper body strength so defined he was able to compensate. He looked down, unbelieving, looked out, and saw John at the other end, his smile beaming.

"I'm doing it John! I'm doing it!" Sherlock exclaimed in a child-like delight, through heavy breaths of exertion. "You know I wish Lestrade was here with his camera now."

"Come on then, if you're feeling so good, think you can move your right leg for me?" Anna said.

Sherlock loved a challenge. Slowly, and shakily, he shuffled his foot along the floor, just a couple of inches in front of the other. He grimaced with the effort.

"And the left? Come on, you're doing great," Anna encouraged.

Sweat was pouring from Sherlock's forehead as he dug deep in concentration and effort to repeat the action. He pulled his left foot to meet up with his right, and then inched it forward.

"That's great! Sit back down now ok?" Anna wheeled his chair up to him and Sherlock dropped in weakly, all his energy spent on two steps.

"I did it John," Sherlock said, panting. "I did it."

A tear rolled down John's cheek. "I saw."

.......

A week later, well before rush hour while most people were barely awake, a taxi pulled up outside 221b Baker Street, a ramp was lowered and Sherlock wheeled himself out. He looked up at the door and then to John, who had their bags in one hand and a walking frame in the other.

"Ready then?"

"As I'll ever be." Sherlock looked up, nervously.

"Here be your Everest," John joked. "Want to get up here?"

"No I don't want be seen using that thing John I'll look ancient," Sherlock quickly snapped. "Let's get inside and I'll use it there."

John sighed and smiled at the return of Sherlock's vanity, then suddenly realised he'd never talked in those tones about his wheelchair. He opened the door and helped Sherlock reverse himself up the small step and into the landing. And then, the 17 steps. John ran to the top and put the walking frame there, and then came back down to stand behind Sherlock as he tentatively took each step, tiring with each one. But he was determined, using the bannister to get himself to the top.

"Want me to bring your chair up?" John asked.

"No leave it down there," Sherlock said, grabbing the frame and walking slowly to his faithful armchair.

"Tea?" John said.

"Couldn't think of anything better John."

"It's good to be home eh? Although you should have stayed a while longer - you know you're not ready yet."

"Yes I am, I can walk with the frame can't I?" Sherlock protested.

"Well, yes, but you've still got a lot of work to do. I'll stay here with you until you're fully recovered."

Sherlock smiled and then his face became serious.

"I need to say sorry John. For all the hurt I've caused you. This is the latest in a long line of times when I've lost you sleep, I've made you worry, I've stressed you out and, in the last couple of years, I've pulled you away from your family. I'm so sorry."

John put the kettle back on the stand, stirred the two cups and brought them over, sitting opposite him as he had always done. "You don't need to apologise Sherlock. If it was the other way round you'd be there for me. Christ, you almost killed yourself saving me from that lunatic, and I'll never forget that. We are a team, you and me. We pick up the slack when the other can't take it, we take the highs and the lows."

"All the same John, I am so grateful for all you do, and all you are. I would not be here if it weren't for you. You have literally been here for every step, and for every daily struggle before that. When I woke up that morning, and I couldn't move, I..."

"I know, Sherlock."

"And when I had to rely on you..."

"I know. I understand it all. You don't need to say it."

Sherlock looked at John with a smile. Time to change the subject, all it had been for weeks was therapy; living and breathing it. "So, what's in the inbox then? What cases await?"

John pulled out the laptop and opened up their site. "Oh, quite a few here. Are we going for threes and fours, or sevens and above?"

"Hmmmm, lets go for the little cases today, should get them solved in no time. And the sevens, we'll start those tomorrow. Actually, did Scotland Yard ever finish off our case? Lestrade said they got the Mafia boss, didn't he?"

"Yeah, a couple of days ago. But he said they still hadn't recovered the stolen diamonds. The Russians won't talk, obviously."

"Well, shall we at least finish what we started? And then we can clear the inbox."

"You sure Sherlock? I mean, to be honest if they've got him then the rest will follow."

"I know. I want to finish it."

"Now?"

"Well lets enjoy our tea first shall we?"

After a nap, and then a couple of hours of tea, chatter and getting reacquainted with his scruffy but perfect flat, Sherlock was already bored and itching to get out.  
"Right lets go, I can't sit around here all day."

Getting down the stairs was as tricky as getting up them but again, Sherlock dug in and got the job done. He was glad, however, of his chair waiting for him at the end, the short journey had already tired him out. But that wasn't about to stop him, and the pair made their way out the door and hailed a taxi. 

They arrived at Scotland Yard and when they reached Lestrade's division, Sherlock was shocked and embarrassed when, upon seeing him, many of the officers rushed over to greet him and pat him on the back. Lestrade heard the commotion and came out his office.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here, thought you weren't allowed home until you were walking again?" Lestrade said. 

"You've not solved my case yet, so I decided to finish my rehab as an outpatient. I can do short distances, so shouldn't be long. How much further did you get?"

"Well you know we got the main main, Mariynev, but he's not talking. Neither are his associates. We still don't know where they've hidden the diamonds."

Sherlock wheeled past him, past Donovan and Anderson without looking and into his office. "Case files Gavin."

John looked at Greg and smiled. He could see Sherlock was in his element, and back to his belittling best. Standing or sitting he still owned the place. He wouldn't have it any other way.

They followed him into the office, Donovan and Lestrade both carrying large files in their arms. Sherlock stood up gingerly, took his coat off, and dropped back down. "Looks like we'll be here a while then?" he said, wheeling round to the back of the table and laying all the files out in front of him. "Tell me, Lestrade, have you found anything to confirm Melissa Carter was involved in the theft?

"We searched her house and found nothing to indicate she was in possession of the diamonds. Which reminds me what did you do with that ring?"  
Sherlock ignored him and there was a lengthy pause.

"So why would they kill her?" John asked, breaking the silence..

"Because maybe she knew where they were and was going to tell the police about it before the Russians could sell them on? She was overcome by guilt." Sherlock surmised. "Or, maybe she did have them and sold one on - that would explain the expensive shoes and clothes. Bet her home didn't reflect her attire?"

"No," Lestrade said. "Very sparse and a kitchen cupboard full of value beans."

Sherlock continued to thrash his way through paperwork, speed-reading everything and discarding most of it. "Well there's nothing here, is there? You've clearly missed something. As usual. Grab my coat John, we're going."

"Where?" Lestrade said.

"To Melissa Carter's house. Are you coming?"


	10. Digging up the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all enjoying the tale, again as I've said before, all medical stuff is guesswork :)

Lestrade drove the three of them to Melissa Carter's home in Finchley. It was the usual fare you'd expect for a single person living in London, a small flat in an old Victorian house.

To Sherlock's silent relief it was ground floor. He got out of the car, holding onto the door for leverage. "Leave it in the boot John, I'll be ok," he said, just as John was about to walk to the back of the saloon and retrieve Sherlock's chair. Instead, he walked towards Sherlock and offered an arm, which the detective accepted, and gripped tightly.

"You sure you're fit for this Sherlock?" Lestrade said. "It is a bit soon."

"I think I know what I can and cannot do," Sherlock said, stern-faced. John looked at Lestrade also, but with a 'don't push it' expression. Lestrade went on ahead and opened the door and the consulting duo followed very slowly, through a small hallway and right into a bijoux kitchen, with a rustic breakfast bar in the middle, and a bar stool next to it. "I'll sit here," said Sherlock, taking the first opportunity for a rest.

He looked around the kitchen, nothing remarkable to it, typical of a woman living alone, the single bowl and spoon in the drainer from breakfast, a small pile of tea bags building next to the kettle, a woman's magazine discarded on the breakfast bar, the page left open on the horoscopes. Stereotypical, almost.

Glancing over to the small windowsill above the sink, he spotted something. Two plants, both in pretty pink pots, both dying. Lestrade was taking John on a tour of the flat and Sherlock felt he couldn't just sit there. He remembered the soil he found under Melissa's ring and he just had to know - was the soil in the pots, the same as the soil under her ring?

Using the breakfast bar as a support, he stood, took a few tentative steps to the end, grabbed across to the sink and made the biggest step across as he could, although he felt uneasy on his feet. With one hand still gripped to the counter, he tried to reach the windowsill and the pots, but couldn't. He didn't have the strength in his legs yet to go up on his tiptoes, and he certainly didn't want to fall. "For God's sake," he muttered under his breath. His fingers were no more than a centimetre away.

Time to change tactics. Moving his way to the side of the sink, he turned round and, thanks to his new-found upper body strength, lifted himself up onto the counter with relative ease. From there, he twisted to the left to grab the pots.

"What the hell are you doing up there?" John said, walking in just as Sherlock had grabbed the first pot. "I leave you for two minutes!"

"Here, check this," Sherlock threw the pot to John, who caught it but not without spilling some of the contents over his jacket. "Thanks, really appreciate it," John said, his words heavily laced with sarcasm.

"The soil, John. It's the same as the soil under her ring."

"You mean to say we were heading to the Lake District on a wild goose chase? We went through all of that, for nothing?"

"No," Sherlock added. "There's more. These plants are alpine, they only grow in the Lake District because of the high altitude, hence their state here. This is a clue. Now help me down."

"Sorry Sherlock, would you mind telling me what the hell you know that I don't on this!" Lestrade said, rubbing his head, as John helped Sherlock back down to the ground.

"I'll fill you in in the car. But basically, it means our diamonds are where these plants thrive," Sherlock said, pointing to the plant. "It means we have to go back to the Lake District."

.............

Lestrade got Sherlock and John on the road straight away, stopping at Baker Street only briefly for John to pick up Sherlock's medicine — he still suffered waves of pain in his legs — and some supplies for an overnight stay as they wouldn't arrive until late; too late to start their search immediately.

The journey was smooth, with little traffic and it gave Sherlock time to rest for what would likely be a busy day ahead.

"Hey, Sherlock, aren't you supposed to be at rehab tomorrow?," John said in passing.

"This is my rehab John. Well, it is for now..." Sherlock said. Normally he would snap back, John thought, but there was something in his voice, something different. There was a determination. He needed the closure of it to truly move forward.

And then John realised where they were. Heavily wooded forest on either side of the road, no street lights, just the faint glimmer of cats eyes, a bendy section ahead. This was where they had come off the road. This was where Sherlock's struggle had begun.

"Are you ok?" John asked, quietly. In the drivers' seat, Lestrade was oblivious of their location.

"Hmmmm," Sherlock said. John watched him as he looked out the window, slowly rubbing his chin with his hand, then looked down at his legs, and then back out. John daren't guess what Sherlock's inner monologue was at that point. He had an idea, and he didn't want to venture. Instead, he turned to look out of his own window, and thought of all he had been through, being by his best friend's side. Memories came flooding back, and all the emotion that he had pushed to one side for his and Sherlock's survival and recovery, sat heavy in his stomach. He heard Sherlock sniffle, ever so slightly, and he allowed a tear to fall.

"You ok back there boys? All gone a bit quiet," Lestrade said, glancing into his rear view mirror. John couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes, and the look smacked Lestrade in the face as he realised. "Oh," was all he could muster. An awkward silence followed, as all three men struggled to come to terms with the moment.

Evenutually, the DI broke the silence. "I've booked us into a Premier Inn just outside of Windermere, I hope you don't mind but I chose an accessible room, is that ok?"

"Yes Greg. Thanks," said Sherlock.

The trio arrived at around 11pm, and while John and Lestrade immediately crashed out, Sherlock sat up in bed, unable to stop thoughts of the case, and his own. He had been busy and on his feet all day, covering more ground than he had done in more than two months. Before today, his only steps had been made in the safety of a therapy room, with trained hands and equipment to help. He was physically shattered, but he was mentally on edge. Eventually though, aided by some pain relief, he drifted off.

..............

Sherlock deliberately set an alarm one hour before he knew they all had to be awake to start the search, so he could go about his morning routine in peace and without Lestrade's curiosity bearing down on him. John knew the struggles he had experienced with everyday living, but up to this point, even in hospital, he had managed to conceal it from everyone else. And he liked it that way. By the time Lestrade and John were up, he was washed, dressed and had even made a cup of tea, which he had nearly finished by the time they had come to.

"Christ Sherlock you're keen," Lestrade said, puffy eyed and stubbly.

"No, I'm organised. I have to be. Quicker I'm ready, the quicker we get to the bottom of this."

John and Lestrade freshened up and threw on some clothes and, grabbing a bacon butty and a coffee each on the way out, headed straight to the tourist information centre for information on where the alpine plant in the flat, grew in the area. They had it with them, and the helpful guide was able to tell them of a spot a few miles down the road where a large area of it was growing. They drove up a steep hill — it wasn't a mountain but it was a fair size — before the road ended and it became a dirt track. John pushed Sherlock along to a glade, Lestrade leading the way with a map, which the guide had marked with a pen for possible locations.

They came across a large patch of the plant on a slope and stopped. "Best get rummaging then," Lestrade said, pulling up his coat sleeves and foraging through the flowers. John joined in from another angle, the pair working quickly to look for any disturbed earth. Sherlock looked on, exasperated. "Can you see anything?" he asked. "Not yet Sher-"  
John was interrupted by Lestrade. "Looks like we're too late."

Sherlock wheeled over as far as he could go, to try to catch a glimpse. "Well tell me what you see then!"

"There's a shallow hole, soil is fresh," John said. "This has been dug recently."

Sherlock saw a piece of paper on the floor by his feet. He reached down and picked up, and discovered it was a piece from the inside of a cigarette packet. He sniffed it. "Russian. This is a brand I smoked while I was away."

"Who knew your blog on the 240 different types of tobacco ash would come in useful," John said.

"243 John."

"Well if these guys are part of the same gang we've got the boss of - will they be back in London?"

"Probably. They brought motorbikes up here to make a quick getaway it seems," Sherlock said, pointing at the faint track marks in the dusty road. "Take a photo of that hole John and bring it to me."

John duly obliged and Sherlock inspected the picture. "Looking at the colour of that soil I'd say they dug that up overnight. They know we are on to them. We've been watched."  
"Just like we were before. Sherlock what are we going to do?"

"Well we will just have to catch them and retrieve the diamonds before they do anything, aren't we?"

Lestrade made some phone calls to division to grill the Russians they had arrested on possible headquarters or other locations. They had to be based somewhere. And he got onto the traffic police to cross check the motorway cameras for any speeding motorcycles on the route back down to London that morning.

Meanwhile, Sherlock got in the car with a grimace, all the activity of the last two days had taken its toll and he was stiff, and tired. "You alright Sherlock? This is too much, too soon isn't it?" John said. "You know I could just get Mycroft to - "

"Oh no don't get him involved, he'll have me holed up at the manor for God knows how long. And then my parents would visit and oh God, no," Sherlock said, a slight panic in his voice. "I can't be doing with it. I need this John, I know it sounds odd, I know it doesn't look like I need it.."

"No Sherlock, it really doesn't."

"But I do. I have to close this case. I have to be the one to do it. I have to prove that I can."

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"I have to prove it to myself. How long have you known me John?"

John gave a pensive nod. "Too long? No, it's coming up five years isn't it?"

"And what have I always said about my body?"

"Transport."

"Exactly. I've had times before when it's let me down, which you also know full well about, but I got it through. I got the case solved before it broke down. This time though, it broke before I could solve it. This time it's terrified me."

John looked stunned.

"It still does."

John's mouth opened to respond, but nothing came out.

"This whole case has pushed my mind to the limit, the absolute boundaries of where it can go. And not because of the details, because of this," Sherlock gestured to himself. "No matter what my mind told my body to do, it wouldn't comply. It's still not entirely, and I'm pushing as hard as I can. My mind is going faster than the rest of me. I need to finish the case in spite of what's happened. I need to prove that I can complete a case without my transport running properly."

John listened intently. He dipped his chin into his chest in thought, sighed, and then: "I can see that Sherlock, I totally understand. I am your friend, and I am also your doctor. I will get you to the end, if that's what you really want. 

"It's what I want. I don't think I'll properly recover if I don't."

John knew exactly what he meant. 

"Right then boys, back to the Big Smoke," Lestrade interjected, once again completely unaware of the emotional tidal wave crashing in the rear passenger seats. "I'll get a fair amount of mileage back on this!"


	11. Opening up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today.
> 
> Again medical stuff is loosely-based, but we are coming to the end! Just a few more chapters after this :(
> 
> Glad you are all enjoying, kudos and comments ALWAYS welcome! Thank you!

Sherlock never slept during a case. Slowed him down, he said. 

But he slept for most of the way home - though it was disturbed by the aches and pains he was still suffering. All the exertion of the past couple of days had caught up with him. He was so weary, all his limbs felt heavy and stiff, and all the nerve endings, which were still coming to life, were screaming in protest. Sleep took him away from some of the pain, but every once in a while a pain would come that would wake him with a jolt.

John felt helpless really. He'd made sure Sherlock had taken all the meds he was allowed, and all he wanted to do was give the man a cuddle, run his hands through those dark curls to comfort him back into some kind of restful slumber. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't really appreciate that, especially in front of Lestrade, so the occasional stroke of Sherlock's tensed hand, curled into a fist with white knuckles, would have to do. Instead, he talked with Lestrade at length about the case, writing down as much as he could so he could relay it back to the detective when he woke.

"You're a good man, John," Lestrade said. "I hope you don't mind me saying....I've always known you two were close, Christ Sherlock even went at great lengths to outline it at the wedding. But I've never really seen it. Until now."

"Well you've known him longer than me, he might have this tough and cold exterior but underneath it he needs reassurance, friendship, a guiding hand. He's saved me more times than I care to think about over the years. Starting with offering me a room at Baker Street. I wouldn't be here now if Mike Stamford hadn't introduced me to him." John looked over at his friend with care. "Greg you should have seen him after the crash. It was so bloody scary."

"I can imagine," Lestrade said. "How did you get to safety?"

"Well we used a parcel shelf as a makeshift stretcher for him and I pulled him along. And we both got dehydrated, he was badly concussed as well. And then the parcel shelf broke, we had to get up this bloody great hill together. And then I piggybacked him for miles until we reached a bridleway and passed out."

"Shit."

"Tell me about it. You know, now I repeat it all, it doesn't seem real. He was so helpless Greg. My heart broke."

"I don't know how you did it John. How you saved both of you and held it together. You're a bloody hero."

"Thanks mate."

Lestrade looked back, glancing at Sherlock. "How long before he's back to normal? You know, walking properly?"

"Hard to say really, before all this travelling I'd say a couple of months. I don't know how this will affect things. His legs are so weak still, bless him."

"We'll all help where we can, you know that?"

John nodded in acknowledgement, then rested his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes. He didn't have a mind palace. But he needed to retreat to somewhere, something. He thought of Mary, and his baby girl.

.............

 

Around 50 miles outside London, Lestrade got a call from division to say the motorcycles had been clocked going down the motorway at 5am, so fast they almost couldn't see the number plates. Thankfully they managed to, and one was traced back to Birmingham, the other in Vauxhall, to a Russian man. Donovan had already sent teams out to investigate the area where the bike was registered, but found nothing.

"You don't want to look there, that's too obvious," Sherlock said, wincing groggily as he awoke. "How much longer? I need to move."

"Not far," said John. He watched as Sherlock tried to adjust himself in the seat, without much luck. He looked exhausted. "Need a massage?," he asked. 

He expected a curt reply but instead got a weary nod and: "If you wouldn't mind."

"We could stop? We've got officers scouring London looking for these thieves. Might not be my division but they almost got you two killed and that makes it my business," Lestrade said. "I want you protected."

"No, keep going I want to get this done," Sherlock said, slowly twisting himself round and exerting himself to lift his legs onto the seat, so John could perform some therapy techniques. Lestrade looked back and saw the care John was taking to assist his friend, and the willingness of Sherlock to accept help. He smiled. 

At around 2pm, they arrived back at Scotland Yard, where Donovan had just made a breakthrough.

"He slipped up," she said, rushing to the three of them as they got out the lift. "We pushed and we pushed and he gave us part of a street name before he clammed up."

"Well, Sally?" Sherlock asked impatiently. She noticed he looked pale but said nothing.

"Well it sounded like Mine... and then he realised and shut up."

"Minories. Aldgate," Sherlock said, instantly. He knew the streets of London like no other. He swivelled round and rolled straight back in the lift. "Come on John, let's go!"

"What about me?" Lestrade said.

"We'll get a taxi there, I can't afford to wait around while you organise a team to lead. Meet us there."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Alright, but don't do anything stupid!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked down. He didn't need to say anything as the doors of the lift closed, John beside him.

"Why are we going alone Sherlock? Are you determined to get us killed?" John said as the lift descended. "You know, don't answer that. I'm calling Mary."

While Sherlock hailed a cab, John spoke to Mary, explaining the situation and where they were headed. "Hopefully we can get these diamonds retrieved today," he said, head turned away from his friend. "He's absolutely shattered, this is probably going to set him back a little while."

"This is Sherlock we are talking about John, you and I both know he won't stop until it's done. Just be there for him. And afterwards, maybe we can all move in to Baker Street until he's better. He's going to need us."

"Come on John, taxi is waiting!" Sherlock called from inside the cab.

"Yeah I think he will. Listen I'll call you later, ok?"

The cab dropped them off at Aldgate bus station, and Sherlock surveyed the scene around him, lots of shops in older buildings twinned with glass-fronted office space, much of it mirrored. He began to wheel himself down Minories, John following behind. After a few minutes of silence, John broke it. "How are you feeling Sherlock?"

"Can't say I feel great," he admitted. "I'm tired, my legs hurt almost as much as they did that first day. I am not even sure I could stand right now."

"Ok, well we can deal with that when this is over, and get you right. It won't take much to set you back at this stage but once we get started again it won't take long," John put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder, just as he stopped briefly, and then rolled on slowly.

"What is it?"

"I think this is our place. Building is entirely vacant but not derelict, fake security cameras, you see? I'm not stopping because if they're in there, they'll see us looking." Sherlock continued down the street, and went into a convenience store.

"Got your gun?" Sherlock whispered as he rolled down the aisle. John nodded, patting his side.

"Good. What you are going to do is climb over the fence at the bottom of the car park and find a place where I can get in. Do be quiet about it though, we don't want to cause a scene."

"Are you out of your mind Sherlock?," John exclaimed in a loud whisper. "In case you don't remember, the last time we staged a break-in things didn't end well! And you are in no fit state."

"Oh its not the same John, we're going to be in and out in no time." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. John just looked at him, dumbfounded. "Well, go on then!" John gave his friend a look of distain, huffed and stomped out.

Sherlock followed John out of the shop and found a suitable place to cross, then rolled into at a Starbucks over the road where he ordered a coffee and watched from inside. He saw John inconspicuously walk down the unused trade entrance and then, in an impressive move, Sherlock thought, clambered over. He waited for the call.

..........

John was on his own.

He balanced in his mind Sherlock's need to complete the case and Sherlock's health, and decided it was better to concentrate on the latter. He was going to find these diamonds himself.

He clung to the sides of the walls, trying to be as invisible as possible. While the security cameras looked fake from the outside, he didn't know what surveillance any squatters may have installed elsewhere.

The building was curved, so he followed it round to the left, away from the main road, and eventually came across an open fire escape door, surrounded by litter and stinking of urine. He carefully went in was met with the start of a filthy concrete staircase. Looking up he could see it rose right to the top, some eight floors' worth. Silently, with his gun primed, he started climbing.

He reached the first floor, and opened the double doors to find a huge empty open plan space, desks smothered in dust and shredded paper in degrading bin liners, spilled out onto the cheap brown carpet. A leak in the roof had found its way down to this level, and it reeked of damp as mould cascaded down one corner of the space. Other than that though, there was nothing to be found. The next floor was much the same, save for some additional furniture which John went through to make sure the diamonds had not been stashed anywhere.

By this point the swill in his stomach and the pounding of his heart had subsided - Sherlock was rarely wrong with his instincts but this time he wasn't sure it was the right spot. Everything was just too abandoned, too still.

But as he left the floor and headed back to the stairwell he noticed the faint scent of cigarette smoke. He checked himself, that maybe he hadn't picked anything up from outside on his clothes, but they were fresh. Sniffing again he detected the faintest whiff. Someone was there. His heart rate increased as he slowly made his way up to the third floor, the smell getting ever so slightly stronger, but still no signs of life.

He went into the room. Again, open plan, again empty. This time though, discarded cigarette packets and empty bottles of cheap vodka were gathered in a corner. A radio was plugged in, but off, in the corner, a map of Great Britain was on the wall, and alongside it a series of pictures. Of the jewellry shop, of Melissa Carter, of Sherlock. Of John.

 _Shit,_ he thought.


	12. The climb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all still enjoying. We are reaching the end and danger is lurking....

Sherlock had finished his coffee and was jittery, tapping out rhythms on his thighs with his fingers, where the hell was his call? It had been ten minutes and that, in his world, was far too long.

He considered his options. He certainly couldn't call John - if he called, the buzzing of the phone, or indeed John's voice if he answered, might give the Russians notice that he was inside the building. And there was no way he could get over that fence. But he did wonder if, maybe, there was another point of access. He made his way back into the direction of the bus station and swerved right down Aldgate High Street, taking the first right down towards the other side of the abandoned office block.

He looked up at the sky and thanked the powers that be that, just down a little side road, there was a narrow entrance between two broken metal fences. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through, but he made it, despite scraping his hands on the sharp metal. From there he had to get across a rough and gravelly track, broken glass and large pieces of masonry proving a tough assault course from which to negotiate his chair. He certainly couldn't walk it, so with a lot of effort he struggled along. By the time he reached the pavement alongside the building he was sweating and feeling nauseous. But he could not stop. He still hadn't received a call, and another half hour had passed since he left the coffee shop. He was starting to panic. And his fears were realised when he too, arrived at the fire exit door. He immediately saw cigarette packet papers on the floor and butts strewn everywhere, matching the ones he'd identified earlier that day. He knew his hunch was right, but he also knew John would not have seen. John had gone in blind. John was in danger.

It was like a firework went off in his head, the realisation that John had entered the lion's den alone. When Moriarty had used those words, "John Watson is definitely in danger," in his mind palace after the shooting, it brought him back to life.

And now, knowing John's mortal danger, just as before, it gave Sherlock the extra push he needed. He grabbed at the handrail at the side of the stairwell and pulled up from his chair, biting on his lip to prevent the yelp of pain he was so desperate to let out. He looked up at the challenge ahead and with gritted teeth, willed his transport to get him to the place he needed to be the most.

Step, by agonising step, tiring with every flight he completed, he tried to keep his mind and senses alert to any sign of his friend. On the fifth flight, and with his legs virtually buckling beneath him, a sweating and exhausted Sherlock smelled the cigarette smoke. He so desperately wanted to sit, for the pain to go away, but he knew if he did, he'd be too late. He might have already been too late, he didn't know, but he pressed on regardless.

Following the narcotic trail of smoke he hauled himself up the sixth flight and saw what made his heart drop to the pit of his empty stomach. John, gun in hand, was surrounded by burly Russians, all armed. "Where is the ring?!" one was screaming at him. John remained silent and pale. He was completely surrounded. 

Sherlock tried to stay completely still, but tiredness had made him very unsteady. He silently text Lestrade, giving a location. He ended it with "hurry" knowing full well that made Lestrade move drastically faster.

Suddenly, and without warning, his legs gave out underneath him. He broke his fall with his hands and elbows, but he was unable to contain a cry of pain. The Russian mobsters turned their heads to the Consulting Detective.

John looked over too, and the panic in his eyes bore into Sherlock as he gingerly raised himself up to a sitting position at the top of the stairwell. 

"Get him," said one of the men, who clearly saw himself as a leader and dressed like one as a result, though the stains on his tie told him home life was not as plain sailing as helping to run an international diamond smuggling ring.

"Oh don't rush, I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock said, panting, and trying to remain nonchalant.

Two of the Russians put their weapons aside and grabbed Sherlock under the armpits, dragging him into the room and dumping him next to John. John looked down at his friend. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Sherlock looked up, pale, sweating and shaking with the pain. He smiled briefly and then put his best game face on.

"The game is over," Sherlock said, as calmly as he could manage. "The police are on their way, you'll be surrounded so you may as well give up now."

The four Russian assailants bristled, looking to the leader in the cheap suit. "We will make our escape shortly, just as soon as you tell us where the ring is."

"And what would you want that ring for? It would hardly be the most valuable item in your possession. That's just greedy."

Sherlock's mind was working overdrive. Why would they want Melissa Carter's ring, so simple with its tiny diamond and emerald setting? More H. Samuel high street fare than Tiffany. Suddenly, he got his answer. These Russians were really, really stupid.

The cheap-suited leader strolled over to a desk, opened a draw and removed a black box, dented and scratched but sealed shut. They had tried to open it by other means but failed. It had to contain the diamonds they wanted.

"Ah, you'll be needing the key for that," Sherlock said.

The leader's head shot up. "So now you know."

"I'm sorry what are you two talking about?" John said, clearly confused. "Can we just drop the guns?"

The Russian mobsters began to lower their weapons. "No!" shouted the leader. "They are a threat, and they will spill what they know, and they will give what they have."

He walked towards Sherlock, and crouched beside the detective. "We almost had you, didn't we? In a way though, I'm glad we didn't finish the job. Rather slow you down than take you out of the picture," the leader chillingly used his finger to wipe a line of sweat off Sherlock's brow, and wipe it on his coat collar. Sherlock didn't flinch. "This would not have been half as fun," he added.

"But if you do not give me that ring, I will make sure these boys end you, slowly and painfully." As he said it, he pushed himself up, and then used his foot to push down on Sherlock's thigh. The pain was excrutiating, but Sherlock, somehow, remained silent. John watched on, his heart pounding in his chest and a red mist falling down, but he exchanged another knowing look with his best friend, looked into his pained eyes, and knew any retaliation now would mean a bad end for both of them.

Sherlock would have been scared- he should have been. He had no means of escape, except through John. And, unbeknownst to anyone, he had the ring in his suit pocket. But he saw something that made everything alright.

Small feet, clad in combat boots, walked silently and stealthily through the door. 


	13. The assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just this short chapter and one more little epilogue to come. It's been a rollercoaster!

The footsteps got closer, bigger, until they were just metres away from the scene.

Sherlock looked up at John, who had also seen the unfolding rescue. He remained poker faced. There was an unspoken dialogue between them, a couple of tiny nods, and the distraction began.

John gulped, aiming his gun at different assailants at different times to maintain their attention, and began to speak.

"Listen, whoever you are, my friend is really struggling. I know there's stuff you need to know, and I swear to God I don't know it - trust me, I'm clueless to almost all the stuff he actually knows - but I am a doctor and I know and he needs to sit somewhere more comfortable and get a drink. Or you won't be getting anything out of him. His blood pressure is all over the place." He wasn't lying, and although he didn't want to use Sherlock's condition as leverage, it was more than necessary now. To Sherlock, John's words were a green light to let down some of his facade, and used the opportunity to rest back down onto his elbows to try to ease the pain.

There was a pause probably shorter than it felt, and with his gun, the leader gestured to John to move him. "Put him over there. Boys, do not take your eyes off them. If they try to escape, shoot."

The game was on. John saw an office chair in the far corner. He leaned down in order to help Sherlock to his feet. "Are you ok?" he asked.

"No," was the short answer. John felt sick. "Not much longer now ok? Can you stand?"

"No." Sherlock admitted. "I'm so sorry John."

"It's ok, come on," John said, scooping the younger man into his arms with a huff, and carrying him to the chair, lowering him down gently. And then, as all the Russians' backs were turned in the duo's direction, Mary swung into action.

.............

For the first time in his life, John was delighted to be married to an assassin. And by the way she skilfully dispatched the first Russian, silently, she was one of the best, John surmised.

From the thud of the first Russian as he hit the ground unconscious, all hell broke loose. Sherlock, who would have been in the thick of it had he been able to, could only watch from the corner through glassy, exhausted eyes. John shot the leader in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon and collapse in a heap. He grabbed the discarded pistol and threw it to Sherlock for protection. Sherlock grabbed at the air and was able to palm it down onto his lap. His reflexes were compromised, and he prayed that he would not be caught in melee. He watched as it went from five-on-two, to three-on-two. Mary pistol-whipped the next assailant in her sight, and now it was evens.

She meant business. Mary kneecapped them both, two quick shots expertly executed, forcing their enemies onto the ground, screaming in agony. One tried to take a shot at Mary but it flew well wide and into the wall behind as he fell. John grabbed the one nearest to him, performing a submission hold, while Mary pinned the other down with her foot on his throat.

"You alright?" she said, looking to Sherlock, whose complexion had taken a greyish-green colour. "Yeah," he said, through gritted teeth. 

Lestrade, Donovan and a group of police officers burst through the door. "What the hell just happened?" Lestrade shouted before his face dropped, stunned. "Mary?" He looked at Mary, then to John, then to Sherlock. "Mary?"

"Don't arrest her or John. Or ask questions. I will explain everything," Sherlock slurred. "Grab that black box for me will you?"

As the officers handcuffed the men and Donovan radioed through for ambulances to take them away, Mary and John embraced tightly.

"How did you know we would be here?" John said.

"I haven't lost my touch, when you said Aldgate on the phone I knew exactly where they'd be, and where you would. I also knew you would go it alone and try to protect him," she nodded in the direction of the detective. "I wasn't about to let you do that. Good job I arrived when I did, the situation wasn't looking favourable was it?"

"I love you, Mary Watson. Thank you."

Meanwhile, Lestrade bent down, picked up the beaten up box and took it to Sherlock. "These the diamonds?"

"I think so, yes."

"We should get you to hospital as well Sherlock. You're not looking too good."

"I'll be ok Greg, I just need a rest. Just get me home and I'll head to rehab tomorrow to start again," Sherlock said, as he reached into his suit jacket pocket. He pulled out the ring, examined the box and, finding a small hole, pushed the ring into it. There was a gentle double click and the hidden lid released. With shaky hands, he poured the 18 large diamonds of varying colour and carat onto his lap. "Bingo," he said, with a sigh. With the case concluded, the world went black.

.........

"Sherlock...come on now, wake up" whispered a voice. He felt a hand in his hair, and breath on his face. "Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes slowly and blinked several times, trying to focus in on the face above him. It was John. "It's ok, you just passed out, we've got you on the floor, you can't fall."

He grunted and tried to sit up.

"Oh no you don't, you stay right there until you're sure you don't feel dizzy any more."

"M'not going hospital J'hn," he uttered. "I'll be ok."

"I know, me and Mary will get you home and rested, right?"

"Mmmm sounds good."

As he slowly he came to, he noticed it wasn't just John's face above him. Mary was there, biting her bottom lip and red-rimmed eyes, Lestrade and Donovan also. If he had any colour in his cheeks he would have blushed. He didn't want to be the centre of attention any more, and gingerly tried to sit. He felt  John and Mary's hands on either side of his back to help. "Take me home," he said. 

John smiled. "Come on then you, lets go. You know the drill." He crouched between Sherlock's legs, Sherlock grabbed on, and he piggybacked him down the stairs, Mary following.

"People will talk," Sherlock said.

"I don't give a shit," John said with a smile.

"I'll be in touch!" Lestrade shouted after them. "Don't think you're getting out of explaining what just happened!"

They reached the bottom of the stairs and John put Sherlock back in his abandoned chair, then pushed him to the taxi rank by the bus station.

"221b Baker Street please," John said. 


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is, a little epilogue to wrap this tale up. Hope you have all enjoyed it!

Snow fell outside Baker Street, the roads a mushy brown from the traffic, the pavements treacherously icy from footsteps compounding the powdery cold. 

Inside 221b, above Speedy's Cafe, the cheery melody of _Good King Wenceslas_ rang out from Sherlock's violin, and the clan were gathered for their annual Christmas gathering. Molly had made the food, Mrs Hudson brought the Christmas cake and sherry, John and Mary brought Natasha and a truck-load of nursery toys and Lestrade had bought a box of files wrapped in a red shimmering bow for the detective.

Normally, Sherlock would have sat quietly in the corner, begrudging the frivolity and the fluff. But this year things had been a little different. Only a week before, he had finally gained a full discharge from the hospital, and he could leave the wheelchair and the walking frame behind. He still had to listen to his body, especially when he was over tired, but on the whole, he felt like himself again. Christmas provided an easy backdrop from which to celebrate.

"Ok, ok. Everybody gather round, there's something I'd like to say," Sherlock said, putting his violin away and standing in front of the warm fireplace, brushing down the front of his suit jacket and straightening up fully, as if to address the nation. "I am not normally one for sentiment - although on reflection these, lapses, seem to come more frequently these days - but it seems appropriate for me to take this opportunity, with all of you here, to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me, for helping me back to where I am today. It's been a long road, a hard one, and I wouldn't be standing here if you weren't behind me. So, I raise a glass to you all." He tilted a glass of champagne towards his friends.

"And we raise one to you too Sherlock," Molly said, breaking the silence but this time not blushing when she spoke. "You are an insufferable man; one of the most annoying, cold-hearted, stubborn and downright infuriating I've ever had the fortune of meeting. But the way you've handled yourself these past few months, has been amazing. You, are amazing."

Sherlock stood still, opened his mouth to give a cocky response, then checked himself. "Thank you, Molly Hooper." he paused. Mrs Hudson led a small ripple of applause, which Sherlock found just a bit too much and he cut her off. "Enough of all that!" he explained. "It's present time, I've been shopping."

As Sherlock went to the tree and pulled a bag from under it, containing gifts wrapped in old newspaper, the rest of the group looked at each other baffled with pleasant surprise. This was the first time anyone had ever received a gift from the man, he had always balked at the consumerism of Christmas and always made excuses as to why he hadn't even been to Clinton's for a card, let alone buy a gift, wrap it and tag it.

"Didn't see the point of wasting it," he said, assuming the faces were for the newspaper wrapping. "Well go on then, open them!"

The sound of ripping paper cut through the silence, followed by gasps of shock. Everything he had bought was done with care, thought, and consideration of each person's character. John got a new garish jumper, Mary a baking set and Natasha a book about the Pacific Ocean, as well as a bath-time book about Finding Nemo, for the meantime. Lestrade got a home ale brewing kit, and Mrs Hudson a travel voucher to see her sister. Molly opened a tiny box to reveal a gold necklace, with a diamond pendant attached.

"Sherlock?!" Molly exclaimed, and all eyes suddenly turned to her shocked face as she dashed into the kitchen to hide her shock and the tears which welled in her eyes. Sherlock walked towards her, moved a strand of hair off her face, and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Molly."

"But...what? How? Why?"

"Oh the diamond was one I, er, found," he smiled. "But you deserve it. You've always been there. You've always mattered."

"But John?," she whispered.

"What about him?"

"I don't know, I always just assumed..."

"Never assume Molly. Not your strong suit. He's my best friend, that's it. And diamonds don't really suit him. You, however..." he put the necklace on her, "suits you perfectly. After this, Christmas lark, is over, would you like to go to dinner with me?"

"I'd like that very much. Last time you took me the food wasn't up to much."

"Oh it'll be better than St Bart's Hospital canteen I promise." The pair grinned widely at one another.

A cough broke the moment between the two and Sherlock suddenly remembered there were other people in the other room. "Er Sherlock, ahem, sorry," Lestrade said. "I've just had a text from Donovan. There's been a murder at Westfield shopping centre in Stratford, a Father Christmas in his grotto. She says they need you."

"And there's my Christmas present! Come on John, no time to waste. And you Gary!" Sherlock exclaimed as he grabbed this coat and scarf, and flew out the door and down the steps.

"The game is on!"


End file.
